Conflicted
by AshtrayHeart86
Summary: An argument with a drunken Roy goes too far, and ends up costing Edward more than he ever thought it could. Chaos ensues, innocence is lost, and a dark secret is revealed. RoyxEd. Somewhat AU.
1. Spite And Malice

I know the timing's off here, since Edward definitely wasn't sixteen during the time of the Ishbal Massacre, but I have some sort of twisted fascination with post-Ishbal tortured Roy, and I couldn't stop myself from writing this.

* * *

He stared deep into the depths of his glass, absently swirling the amber liquid around with concentration that implied he was contemplating drowning himself in it.

His eyes were shadowed and bloodshot, from lack of sleep, and tears that he would rather not admit to. His body was perfectly still, except for the hand that tilted from side to side, in an almost unconscious motion. He wasn't even blinking.

Having collected the last of the glasses, the concerned bartender walked towards him, and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, with enough pressure to draw him from his mind, but not enough to startle him.

"We're closing, Roy," he said, voice laced with sympathy. "Can you make your way home alright?"

"Yeah," he replied, his voice hoarse and cracking as he attempted to force sound from it. "Be...fine. 'Fanks."

He knocked back the rest of the Scotch that he had been nursing for about an hour or so, and stumbled to his unsteady feet, clutching at the bar to remain upright.

The bartender sighed, guiding him towards the door with some difficulty. Clearly, he was anything but alright, but it was late, and he couldn't exactly walk him home to prevent him from getting into trouble. Most likely, he would collapse somewhere, and sleep there until dawn, where he would awaken with a pounding headache, and no memory of the previous night.

"Take care of yourself, Roy, okay?"

There wasn't much else he could do as he relinquished his grip on the Lieutenant Colonel's arm, and watched him stagger to the end of the street, stopping at an intersection and looking blankly in both directions.

The months since the Ishbal Rebellion hadn't been good to him, if his excessive drinking and pallid complexion were anything to go by. He had heard countless stories about Roy Mustang, the war hero, but he had watched him night after night, meeting those same lifeless eyes, and he knew without having to question that he felt anything but heroic.

Roy groaned in frustration. No matter how frantically he wracked his brain, he just couldn't recall which direction he lived in. He stood there, unmoving, for almost five minutes, before he decided he would head in whichever direction he wanted, and pray that he would remember his own doorstep when (if) he came to it.

Contemplating for a moment, he turned left, and stared determinedly down at his feet, having to focus more than usual on the supposedly simple task of putting one foot in front of the other.

Since he wasn't paying a speck of attention to where he was going, he found himself tripping down the sidewalk and walking into walls multiple times, but he didn't allow it to deter him. Thankfully, the Scotch seemed to have dulled the pain that would undoubtedly be plaguing him when he awoke at some point that afternoon.

He turned another corner, clinging helplessly to the nearest wall to prevent his legs from buckling, and found himself looking up for the first time. His vision was blurred, but that didn't prevent him from realizing he was staring into the depths of a nearby alleyway.

It was enshrouded almost completely in shadow, except for a faint sliver of moonlight, which gave the mouth of the alley a certain sickly glow.

Glimmering faintly within this light, was a strangely familiar automail leg, barely covered by a scarlet trench coat.

Roy took a tentative step forward, allowing the darkness to envelope him as he maneuvered carefully around said appendage. He could feel a pair of eyes burning into the back of his head, but the figure did not speak. Other than how his eyes followed the taller figure's each movement without a trace of emotion, he showed no sign that he had even acknowledged his presence.

Once he was certain he had stepped over both the automail, and the flesh leg, Roy allowed his own limbs to give way, and he collapsed into an awkward sitting position. Grinning proudly that he had managed to perform such complex actions, he looked up at the figure opposite him for the first time.

There was no mistaking those amber eyes, so cold and defiant, masking every possible emotion with well-practiced precision. He, like Roy, did not seem to have slept in a long period of time, and though he tried to force an impassive expression, his lips betrayed him, forming an anguished frown that caused Roy's heart to ache.

"What'cha...doin' here, Fullmetal?" he asked slowly, ensuring that every word was coherent.

"Sitting, Flame," he replied coolly, with added emphasis on his title. "What does it matter to you?"

Roy gave an over-exaggerated shrug, his trademark cocky smirk in place, though slightly lopsided. "'Ooever said it did?"

The teenager sighed, shifting away from him in annoyance. "Go to Hell," he snarled. "No, in fact, crawl back home and I hope the hangover fucking kills you."

Stung, Roy struggled to his feet with some difficulty, his eyes glimmering with rage. Under normal circumstances, any poisonous comments from the vertically impaired alchemist would be ignored, or he would take it in his stride, and throw back a dig at his height.

But now, under the influence, he wasn't about to stand for it. The nerve of that kid! He was just concerned, that was all, and he threw it carelessly back in his face. Who the Hell did he think he was?

"Be'er watch your step, Fullmetal," he replied coldly, his eyes narrowed. "Mouth like 'at can ge' you in trouble."

"From who? You?" he cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. "Don't make me laugh, Bastard. You're too drunk to even remember your own name."

He hesitated for a moment, ensuring that he did, in fact, recall his name. He would so hate for the shrimp to be right, especially when he was so determined to emerge victorious from this argument, like he always did.

He held up his hands in resignation. "I was just lookin' out for you. See, if you wind up dead in this alleyway by mornin', I'll get in trouble, and I'll 'ave even more paperwork to deal with."

"Then I'll walk into a fight just to spite you, and hope I die."

Roy grit his teeth, fumbling for his gloves in the pocket of his standard issue military jacket. He knew exactly what Edward was doing: pushing all of the right buttons to invoke a reaction from the usually stoic Colonel.

"That won't be too hard," said Roy, rage overpowering the alcohol in his blood. "All they'll have to do is step on you."

Edward opened his mouth to start the 'Who're-you-calling-so-short' routine, but managed to hold his tongue just in time. Roy's triumphant smirk was already in place, and he wasn't about to let him get the better of him. Not this time.

"Why don't you do it yourself?" he spat, getting to his feet and looking quite intimidating for someone half Roy's size. "You had plenty of practice in Ishbal, right?"

The look of utter horror on the Colonel's face was enough to tell him that he had gone too far. The initial shock faltered, and he solemnly averted his gaze to the ground.

That was it. The reason he spent his nights drinking himself unconscious in squalid bars. He wanted to forget the faces of all the innocent lives he'd taken, forget the image of those doctors crumpled upon the ground, their lives stolen by his hand.

In one, venomous sentence, all those memories had come flooding back to him. They were so overwhelming that he couldn't respond, couldn't even move.

Edward bit his lip. "Roy..."

He looked up, meeting Edward's gaze, and the blonde instinctively stepped backwards, his back hitting the damp, brick wall that he had been leaning against since before the Colonel had arrived. The sorrow had faded completely, and what replaced it was a fury Edward had never seen before, especially not from Roy.

A pair of hands found his shoulders, effectively pinning him in place. He struggled and writhed beneath his grip, but quickly deciphered it was hopeless. Falling limp, he looked up, meeting Roy's glare with one of his own.

"Don't you _ever_ pretend you understand what happened in Ishbal," he snarled, baring his teeth. "Nothing in your darkest dreams could ever come close to what I saw there!"

Edward lowered his gaze guiltily, and raised his automail hand, flexing each finger in turn. "I think you might be wrong there." he said quietly.

Roy's anger faltered for a moment. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Edward was just a child, despite how fervently he denied it. But standing there, shifting his feet in shame, it almost physically hurt to see how much he reminded him of the child he had seen five years ago, lying unconscious with two missing limbs.

He pitied him, and at the same time, a familiar guilt flooded his veins, making him sick to his stomach. He was the reason Edward had been forced to grow up so fast. He was the reason he was still so vulnerable, but no one seemed to realize it.

Once again, it was all his fault.

He didn't know what made him do it. Perhaps he was trying to cause something other than pain. Whatever the reason, he suddenly found himself stooping down and softly pressing his lips to Edward's, earning a startled squeak.

For a moment, Edward was frozen in shock. Was Roy Mustang, affectionately known as Colonel Bastard _kissing_ him? Deciding in the space of a second that this was actually happening, he pulled away, and stared into those onyx eyes in disbelief.

"What the Hell d'you think you're doing, Bastard?!" he demanded, deciding to ignore how his legs were suddenly reluctant to hold his weight.

Immediately, Roy's eyes narrowed. He hadn't been rejected once in his _life_ and he certainly hadn't expected his first rejection to be from Edward Elric, of all people. Hell, if Hughes, or anybody for that matter, had walked up to him in the bar and told him that by the end of the night he would be kissing Edward, he would've laughed in their faces.

Hurt, but determined not to show it, Roy released the blonde and stormed back to the mouth of the alleyway, feeling those mezmerizing amber eyes burning into the back of his head.

Everyone deals with rejection in different ways. For Roy Mustang, it was to turn back to that blonde shrimp after only several steps, looking over him with a faintly amused expression.

He removed a gloved hand from his pocket, holding his thumb and middle finger against each other. Edward had only a split-second to react, and had managed to move about an inch towards Roy, before he snapped his fingers, and the entire alleyway erupted in flame.

Roy turned on his heel, and swiftly left the darkness of the alley, smirking faintly to himself as he heard the walls collapse behind him.

No one got away with rejecting him. _No one_.

* * *

Before I receive a lot of angry, "How could you do that to Ed?" and "Why did you make Roy such an asshole?" messages, know that I'm not planning to finish it there (grins) Well, unless my rabid plot bunnies decide not to cooperate. Again. 


	2. Not Tonight

I have a thousand and one college assignments due next week, so what do I spend today doing? Watching FMA and typing this up, of course. I love procrastinating.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist. If I did, during the break of each episode, the FMA characters would have to come bring me pie, or else I'd kill them all off in a variety of interesting and painful ways. I've just realized that I'm not a very nice person (grins).

* * *

His route back to Central Headquarters had begun at a slow, casual pace. But once the blood started pounding in his ears, and his insides began tying themselves in knots, he found himself sprinting along the streets, his fists tightly clenched by his sides.

His lungs were protesting the lack of oxygen, but he forced their cries to the back of his mind. It didn't prove too difficult, since something else was already flooding his thoughts.

He threw open the doors which preceded the interior of the building, and almost ran straight into a startled Hawkeye. She regained her composure quickly, as she always did, and stepped in front of him, her arms folded.

"You're eager, Sir," she observed. "I thought you left for home hours ago."

Roy knew perfectly well that he had to be extremely accomplished in the noble art of deception to prevent Riza Hawkeye from seeing everything that lay behind his onyx eyes. Even so, that didn't deter him from leaning casually against the door frame, his arrogant smirk firmly in place, and arms folded across his chest in a mimic of Riza's own position.

"Oh, y'know," he shrugged. "That paperwork was just calling to me."

Riza rolled her eyes. "If only you were telling the truth, Sir."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

Deciding against gracing him with a response, Riza only sighed in desperation, and walked past him out into the street, pulling her military jacket closer around her shivering form.

Roy's shoulders visibly sank in relief. He had been saved the inquisition, for now.

Straightening up, and readjusting his jacket as though nothing had just happened, he strode down the corridor, raising a hand to the various greetings he received, but unable to process any of the words spoken to him.

Only when he had kicked the door of his office closed behind him did he allow himself to sink into his chair, and his head to fall onto his desk with a dull _thwack_.

With his eyes lightly closed, there was nothing to protect him from the wounded innocence of those amber eyes, that had haunted his every step since his feet had carried him from the remains of what used to be an alleyway.

As if his guilt wasn't immense enough, as if there weren't enough gashes on his heart from every person he'd brutally murdered, all because the Military had ordered it. Now, he couldn't even hide behind that pathetic excuse.

He had murdered an alchemist, a _child_ in cold blood, and for what? Revenge? Or perhaps it didn't even matter, any more. He was already a monster. What was another life to add to his collection of things he'd mutilated, destroyed and stolen?

He groaned quietly, covering his face with his shaking hands. Of course it mattered. The tears he loathed with such a passion wouldn't be pricking at his eyes if it didn't matter. The guilt wouldn't be consuming him more than it ever had if it didn't matter.

With agility he thought himself incapable of, he pushed back his chair, and got to his feet, crossing the room to stand before the window. He could see the entirety of Central beneath him, and it was a sight that usually managed to calm him when his pile of paperwork had reached a height that almost matched his own.

He hung his head. Not tonight. Nothing could lift the veil of guilt that suffocated him tonight.

How could he have been so stupid, so reckless? Edward had done nothing to him, other than a few vicious words, that always escaped his lips sooner or later. Those lips that Roy had kissed, for reasons unknown even to him.

He raised his right hand, examining it with faint intrigue for a moment or so. Narrowing his eyes, he clenched his hand into a fist. This hand had crafted nothing but destruction, and tainted the innocent.

"Not any more." he whispered to himself.

He walked back to his desk, and stooped down, pulling open one of the drawers. He gave a grim smile. This particular one always stuck, and required several hefty tugs (complete with annoyed curses) before it moved so much as an inch.

Tonight, it slid open without protest, and Roy was able to slip his hand inside, and remove the pistol he always kept there.

Not exactly practical, to keep a pistol inside a sticking drawer, he thought to himself as he clutched it tightly in his right hand, recalling how it had felt the last time he held this weapon.

He could remember their faces all too well. Remember the horror that consumed him as he looked down upon the two innocent people that would never take another breath, all because of him.

His body gave a sudden, violent jolt, and he grit his teeth, raising the pistol to his temple. He couldn't live with those memories any more. He couldn't spend another night tossing and turning, managing barely an hour of sleep a night before he awoke, drenched in sweat, hearing the screams resounding in his ears.

Tightly closing his eyes, he rested his index finger on the trigger.

"Edward," he whispered, his throat dry. "I...I'm sorry."

* * *

With exasperation visible only in his eyes, the large, intimidating suit of armor descended the flight of steps that led to the library, wringing his hands with a series of dull _clanks_.

He was about to give up and return to the dorms, when he spotted the familiar blue Military uniform, the owner of it heading towards him.

Taking the final steps at a quicker pace, the armor ran towards the figure, causing her to look up in surprise, and reach instinctively for her pistol. Her hand fell slack as she realized who was approaching her.

"Alphonse," she greeted, but sensing his panic, added, "Is everything alright?"

"Major Hawkeye!" he ground to a halt opposite her. "Have you seen my brother? He was supposed to have left for the dorms hours ago, but I can't find him anywhere!"

"I'm sure he's fine," she replied calmly. "Perhaps he found a new lead."

"No," said Alphonse immediately. "He wouldn't, not without taking me with him. Brother isn't like that."

Hawkeye gave a small, cheerless smile. "He is if he's trying to protect you."

"But...from what?" he wondered aloud, before shaking his head. "Thank you."

Turning on his heel, he started to walk, his mind filled with unpleasant concepts as to what could have happened to Edward. The two had probably missed each other, with Edward returning to the dorms, and Alphonse heading for the library, but that didn't prevent Al from fearing the worst.

He turned left, and was stopped dead by a pile of smoking rubble, which appeared to be the remnants of an alleyway. As he watched, the brick seemed to be moving, and a frustrated grunt from beneath was perfectly audible.

Gasping, Al leapt forward, and set about shifting some of the rubble to release the person trapped within. What with being contained within a practically invincible suit of armor, he managed it quickly, and minutes later, he caught sight of a figure he recognized instantly.

His normally blond hair was matted with dirt and something that horribly resembled blood, and his face was covered in profusely bleeding gashes. With his flesh hand, he was clutching at his automail arm, despite how the majority of it was now lying beside him in multiple pieces.

"Brother!" cried Alphonse. "Brother, are you alright? What happened?"

"I'm just peachy, Al," he croaked. "But I'm gonna need your help."

Alphonse knelt beside the shorter form of his brother, and took a gentle hold of his flesh arm, wrapping it around his cool, metal shoulders. He then slowly got to his feet, taking Edward with him, and held him steady, ensuring that both of his legs were capable of holding his weight.

"What happened, Brother?" he repeated.

"Nothing," Edward replied dismissively. "I need you to take me to headquarters."

"But Brother, you're hurt!" he said, his eyes glinting with concern. "You need to rest!"

"No," Edward sharply hissed. "What I need to do is get to headquarters, and find Mustang."

"Brother-"

The look that was thrown in his direction was enough to silence him. Clearly, there was nothing he could say that would change his brother's mind.

"Alright," he sighed dejectedly. "But you have to promise me you'll get some rest. We have to fix your automail."

Edward merely nodded, and allowed his brother to slowly lead him towards Central headquarters.

He was weak, he knew that. But it wasn't about to stop him from confronting the man who had just attempted to kill him. He wanted to know what had been going through Mustang's head, at least before he put his (unfortunately, flesh, since the automail wasn't up to much) fist through him.

It might not solve anything, but it would make him feel a whole lot better.


	3. Deception

I wrote this one at four o'clock this morning. A chronic insomniac, and a procrastinator. Fantastic combination. But the reviews that gave me warm fuzzies (and the coffee, perhaps) made me feel better. So here's part three! Thanks and cookies to everyone who's reviewed, or added the story to their Favorites or Alerts!

It's kind of a filler, this one. It wasn't going to be, but then I decided to be mean. Being mean makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, too!

**Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I still don't own FMA. I did watch CoS while I was writing this, but I don't think that counts.

* * *

It took quite some time to reach Central headquarters, much to Edward's dismay. He wasn't the type to wait around for anything, and having to continuously pause when his flesh leg began throbbing had ceased being an annoyance, and was now the new object of his unfathomable rage.

He hadn't forgotten about Mustang, of course. It seemed as though that arrogant smirk was etched into his brain, awaiting it's turn to taunt him when everything else that plagued his thoughts had gotten bored, and retreated into the dark abyss of his mind.

But his hatred for Colonel Bastard could wait, whilst he cursed under his breath at the incompetence of his own flesh and completely ignoring Alphonse's disdainful sighs, as always. It was times like this when he wasn't even certain he _wanted_ his limbs back, but these moments were rare, and always immediately dismissed as being ridiculous.

Automail could break just as easily as bone. And at least when he injured his flesh, he didn't receive a lecture and a wrench to the back of his head from his mechanic and childhood friend, Winry Rockbell. He was certain his skull was still bruised from the last time he had broken his automail during a fight, but perhaps that was the result of having several tonnes of brick collapse on top of him.

The instant this thought flickered through his mind, Edward tightly clenched his remaining fist. Mustang. He was in this mess because of Mustang. He could barely walk because of Mustang. He was having to rely on his _younger_ brother, when he already felt guilty enough for causing him so much pain, because of that murdering, conceited, merciless bastard.

Edward smirked, almost cruelly. The anger came to him with comforting familiarity, and he slipped into it with ease. Barely a day passed when he wasn't bellowing obscenities at the supercilious Colonel for something or other. Usually it was concerned with the blond alchemist's height, or lack of it, as he constantly pointed out.

"Brother," Alphonse said suddenly, as though he could read his sibling's mind. "Why do you need to see the Colonel?"

Immediately, Edward tensed, and although Alphonse could not feel it, he saw his brother's body go suddenly rigid out of the corner of his eye. Edward's initial reaction was to reveal everything. Alphonse was his brother, the only family he had left in this world. Surely he deserved to know?

He bit down hard on his bottom lip. He couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't allow his brother's eyes to glimmer with fear and concern, when he was supposed to be the elder brother. His mother's last words were that the two take care of each other, and he was determined, like he was with everything he did, to carry out her dying wishes.

Even if it meant bending the truth a little.

"Brother?"

Alphonse was no fool. He knew perfectly well that Edward was either concocting a plausible excuse during these moments of silence, or he was pondering how best to explain something he wasn't certain Al ought to know.

"I was heading there anyway," Edward said coolly. "I took a shortcut down that alleyway, and I just so happened to be there when it collapsed," he raised his head, forcefully turning his lips into a cheerless smile. "My luck, huh?"

Alphonse studied him whilst he held his brother's gaze, scrutinizing every inch of his pallid face, and the many hues that his eyes contained, if one dared to look close enough. He sighed heavily. The lack of expression was flawless. If Edward _was_ lying, he was doing it so easily that the large suit of armor couldn't help but be intimidated. If he was so adept at deceiving people, he couldn't prevent himself from wondering what else his brother could be keeping from him.

He didn't get a chance to question him further. The moment the instantly recognizable building came into view, Edward detached himself from his brother's grip with some difficulty, and stumbled for a moment whilst his legs regained the ability to move without assistance.

They shook dangerously beneath his weight, threatening to buckle any minute, but Edward was too stubborn to allow them to do so. If he had to fall, he would make damn sure that Mustang did first.

He glanced back at his brother, and inclined his head very slightly, a gesture that Alphonse knew to mean that he should not follow. He folded his arms across his metal chest plate, ensuring that Edward was aware of his disapproval, and received only the faintest of smiles in return.

Drawing breath slowly to prepare himself for what was to come, Edward took a tentative step forward, wincing slightly as the pressure on his flesh leg caused a sharp twinge of pain in his ankle. He exhaled through gritted teeth, and continued to walk, pushing open the double doors with such force that they almost broke from their hinges, but merely creaked wearily, and slammed to a close behind him.

For once, he was thankful of being here at such an hour. The corridors were devoid of their usual characters: Havoc with his ever present cigarette, or Fuery nursing another stray as Breda complained that he was actually _trying_ to give him a heart attack. He wasn't sure he could handle lying to them, too.

His uneven footsteps resounded much too loudly in the silence for his liking, and he found himself quickening his pace, constantly glancing at his surroundings for any sign that he was not alone. He knew he was being paranoid, but that didn't stop the uncomfortable knot from welling in the pit of his stomach.

He heaved a sigh as he spotted the familiar door ahead of him, and any pain or fear that had existed within him only moments ago was dulled by a sudden rush of adrenalin that coursed through his veins. He had no doubt that Mustang was behind that door. He was rarely seen outside of his office. It seemed he only left it to drown his sorrows, and once he regained consciousness, he could always be found here, pretending to go through the latest stack of paperwork that had found it's way to his desk in his absence.

Edward blinked in confusion, only then realizing that he had been standing with his hand wrapped around the doorknob for almost a full minute as he allowed himself to get lost within the depths of his mind. Shaking his head to clear it, he turned the doorknob, and was about to open the door when a noise from inside stopped him dead in his tracks.

There was no mistaking the sound of a gunshot.


	4. Survival

This one took me a while to finish, but I'm glad I did. Now I can focus on more angst! Yay!

* * *

Edward's entire frame went rigid with panic, his hand clenching tightly to make his grip around the doorknob almost painful. The ridges of it cut into his palm, but his mind didn't even register the pain. All he could think about was the vicious crack of the gunshot resounding throughout the desolate corridor.

Gritting his teeth in some attempt to prepare himself, he smashed his shoulder against the door, causing it to splinter beneath the pressure, and stumbled into the office beyond.

It was bathed in darkness, with only the faintest slivers of moonlight coming from the two windows on the other side of the room. The desk was a mere silhouette, standing out eerily against the varying hues of gray, and lying atop it was a figure Edward recognized immediately.

His jet black hair covered the majority of his facial features, though his mouth, pulled into an agonized frown, was visible beneath it. His right hand hung limply from the desk, holding a pistol in his slackened grip.

Edward swallowed hard, dimly aware that his remaining hand was shaking. "R-Roy?"

Instantly, the taller alchemist jerked from his stupor, and drew his limbs into a sitting position, using both hands to steady himself. He raised his head, and narrowed his eyes in an attempt to decipher the identity of the figure standing in the doorway.

His shoulders sank in confusion, and he merely grunted, "What?"

It was then that Edward's eyes fell upon the empty bottle of Scotch that lay beside the Colonel, and then followed his gaze to the wall. Embedded in the plaster was a single bullet.

Sensing the question that never came, Roy gave a small, drunken giggle. "Thass why you should never drink Thcotch, Ed," he said, blissfully oblivious to how the smaller figure's eyes had darkened. "Makes you miss your 'ead, Ed," his lips curved into a smile. "'Ead, Ed. Get it?"

"Yeah," Edward replied sullenly, taking several steps forward. "Yeah, Roy. I get it," he slammed his fist down on the desk, receiving only a blink for his efforts. "You couldn't kill me. Hell, you can't even kill yourself. Is there anything you _can_ do?"

It became apparent that the Colonel hadn't registered a word of what the smaller alchemist was saying to him, as he looked up, his expression suddenly thoughtful. "You called me Roy," he said. "You've...never called me Roy before."

He suddenly found himself staring blankly at the wall to his left, his neck cracking painfully at the sudden movement. He clawed through the fog in his mind, furrowing his brow for a moment, before he finally came to the realization that Edward had slapped him.

He turned back to the smaller figure, and was momentarily unnerved by the rage flickering through his amber pupils. He didn't bother to question what he had done to warrant such violence, and instead counted his blessings. At least Edward's automail arm seemed to be absent.

Edward took a step backwards, his expression not altering in the slightest, and raised his remaining arm. Clutched in his shaking hand was the pistol Roy was certain that he, himself, was holding, but a quick clench of both of his fists informed him that it was now in Edward's possession.

"So tell me, _Roy_," he said coldly, deliberating emphasizing his name. "You trap somebody underneath a few tonnes of rock, and then drag your ass back here to drink yourself to death," he tilted his head to one side. "Why? Regret?"

Solemnly, Roy averted his gaze. "Gonna kill me, Ed?"

"Answer the fucking question, Bastard." he spat, resting his index finger upon the trigger.

Despite obvious intoxication, Roy was stunned by the severity in his eyes, and the purest contempt in his tone. He didn't need complete control over his mind to know that Edward was enraged enough to do exactly what he threatened.

"Edward..." he croaked, hands shaking uncontrollably. "Ed...I'm at the end of the line, here. I never meant..."

He was cut off by a cruel _bang_, and he lurched forward, clutching at his kneecap with both hands as the metal exploded deep within his flesh and shattered the bone. The pain was nothing he hadn't encountered before: he'd suffered much worse on the battlefield, but the hatred in those stunning eyes seemed to pierce further than the bullet.

"It was an accident, was it? You _accidentally_ burnt the alleyway to the ground? You _accidentally_ tried to kill me?"

Roy flinched at the sarcasm that practically dripped from his voice, before inclining his head in what barely qualified as a nod. "I was drunk. I overreacted."

He was already expecting the second explosion, and when his other kneecap was punctured, he simply grit his teeth to prevent any words from escaping his lips. Apparently, "I overreacted." was not a suitable explanation in Edward's eyes. The blood steadily dripping from his wounds was a dead giveaway.

He pushed the ache to the back of his mind, and valiantly (_stupidly_, his mind muttered) continued. "I made a mistake, Ed," he said. "_Another_ mistake," he gave a grim smile. "I had it in my mouth, that same pistol, after Ishbal, but I couldn't do it. So I started drinking. A little at first, to get some sleep, but then I couldn't stop. I never have been a very good drunk."

He looked up, meeting the blond's gaze, and didn't fail to notice the repulsion in his eyes retreating slightly. _Not enough to put down the gun._ his mind pointed out, but the pistol didn't even matter to him. He couldn't tear himself away from those mezmerizing eyes.

"If you want to kill me," he said, his voice soft. "I'm not gonna try and stop you. Hell, I'll see it as a blessing, 'cause I obviously can't do it, myself. Maybe I'll finally be able to rest without seeing the faces of all those people I killed."

Aware that there was nothing else he could say, Roy interlocked his bloody fingers upon his lap, and stared down at them, patiently awaiting Edward's response. He was expecting a few cruel words, or perhaps something he had spoken had been construed as a dig at the smaller alchemist's height, and he was about to endure one of his trademark incoherent rants.

There was a dull _thunk_, and a mumble of, "Earn this, Roy." before the door slammed loudly to signify that he was once again alone. He glanced up very slightly, and his insides gave an uncomfortable lurch as his gaze fell upon the pistol lying several feet away, glimmering faintly in the moonlight.

He sighed heavily, and allowed his head to fall against the desk, in a perfect mimic of the position he had affected earlier. The siren of the pistol called to him from it's place on the carpet, but he simply closed his eyes in an attempt to block it's cries. He couldn't take his life, not now that Edward had spared him.

He groaned quietly to himself. Never before had survival seemed so difficult.


	5. Manipulation

Two updates from me in as many days?! That's right folks, it's the Armapocalypse.

I was taking a shower yesterday, and suddenly got kershmacked with a bucketload of plot bunnies (All my plot bunnies seem to run rampant in the shower. Strange, you say? Yes. That's me in a nutshell) So I wrote them down, and got straight onto writing this. Say hello to my good friend Angst!

* * *

It didn't take Roy long to decipher that even the slightest of movements caused an unpleasant ache in both of his kneecaps. He did his utmost to ignore it, and contented himself by rolling over onto his back with some difficulty, and glaring up at the ceiling as though it was the sole cause of all of his problems. He lightly closed his eyes, contemplating whether to remain helplessly upon this table all night and hope somebody came in to torture him with more paperwork, or to attempt to make his way out of the room, and to the Infirmary.

Eventually, since his mind was still sluggish and unwilling to cooperate, he managed to connect the concept of moving with his aching limbs, and he drew a sharp breath in preparation for the pain that he knew was certain to engulf him the instant he set foot on the ground.

Before he had a chance to move so much as an inch, the door creaked open, and he silently thanked whoever had decided to come to his aid, and delivered him from the suddenly difficult task of walking. There was a moment's silence, before a set of footsteps crossed the room, and stopped just out of his line of vision. He raised his head and turned it slightly, attempting desperately to decipher the identity of the person standing there, but soon found it impossible.

"Who's there?" he asked instead, his voice sounding as frail as his body.

He hadn't been expecting a voice so cold that it invoked a shudder, and he tightly closed his eyes in a painful hybrid of annoyance and unease. "Well well well, Mustang," he could practically _hear_ him smirking. "What've you gone and done, now?"

"Go to Hell, Archer." he said, slipping into his usual mask of indifference.

He felt fingers delicately tracing his wounds, and couldn't prevent himself from flinching. "That looks painful."

"Not really," he replied, refusing to open his eyes, and meet the paralyzing icy hue of Archer's own pupils. "I've had worse."

He didn't have to open his eyes to know that Archer's expression was one of obvious disbelief. It was common knowledge that the kneecap was a particularly painful place to be on the receiving end of a bullet, and not even the master of deception could disguise his pain.

"What happened?" asked Archer, momentarily disarming the onyx-eyed figure with the sentiment in his words.

Within a split-second, Roy's composure had returned, and his guard was firmly in place. "I was drinking," he murmured. "Holding the pistol, and my finger slipped on the trigger."

Archer's lips curved slightly in amusement. "Twice? C'mon Roy, who d'you think you're talking to?"

Indignant, Roy turned his head and stared defiantly at the wall opposite to where the unwelcome figure was standing. He had no intention of telling Archer what had happened between him and Edward, or _anyone_, for that matter. If word got out that Edward had attacked his commanding officer, he would find himself instantly discharged from the military, and unable to continue his research on the Philosopher's Stone.

He liked to think that his silence was purely for noble causes, but even he wasn't capable of such delusion. He was perfectly aware that the instant he was questioned on the matter, Edward would reveal that it was in fact Roy who had been the first to attack, and it would be him who found himself without a job. He couldn't let that happen, not when he had given up everything to reach his current position.

"It's not like you to let your guard down," that smooth voice interrupted his thoughts. "Unless you're weaker than everyone seems to think."

Roy grit his teeth, and clenched his fists so tightly that his barely existent nails drew blood from his palms. He knew exactly what Archer was trying to do. He was provoking him, using every talent at his disposal to cause him to inadvertently reveal the name of his attacker. Roy was more intelligent than that. Providing he kept his mouth shut, and didn't rise to the bait, the incident would be forgotten.

"Oh, wait," Archer's voice held a sudden realization that Roy knew to mean nothing pleasant. "You took someone on a lousy date, didn't you?"

Roy's eyes flickered with anger, and before he knew what was happening, words were pouring from his mouth that he couldn't have prevented even if he'd tried. "For your information, it was Edward!" he snarled. "And I wouldn't date him if he was the last goddamn pipsqueak on Earth!"

The jubilation in Archer's eyes was enough to inform him that he had allowed his self control to slip. It had only been for the merest second, but the damage was done.

He frowned in annoyance at his own incompetence. How many times had he admonished Edward's ferocious temper, and lack of self control? "Alright, fine. You got what you wanted. Now will you leave?"

"Why did he do it?" Archer asked confusedly. "I always knew the kid had a temper, but to actually _shoot_ somebody?"

"We were having an argument," said Roy. "Things...escalated."

"By the looks of it, they more than escalated," Archer inspected the gunshot wounds once again, though decided against causing the Colonel any more pain by touching them. "You need to go to the Infirmary. They look pretty deep."

"Close range," Roy muttered darkly. "I don't think I'll be walking anywhere for a while. Never mind to the goddamn Infirmary."

"Well I'm gonna help you, aren't I? Jesus, Roy, did you get shot in the head, too?"

Roy was certain there had to be some ulterior motive here. However, he was too tempted by the idea of having these unpleasant pieces of metal removed from his kneecaps, and the ability to walk without assistance returned to him. He loathed having to rely on others, and having Archer as the only person to bear witness to his moment of weakness was not something he wanted to prolong.

"Alright," he groaned resignedly. "Help me up."

He ignored the satisfied smirk at his cooperation, and instead focused upon keeping a steady hand on Archer's shoulder for balance, as he wrenched his legs from the table. Without applying any pressure to them, they seemed capable of withstanding his weight, but the instant Roy clambered from the desk, they buckled, and he would have collapsed to the ground were it not for Archer holding him firmly in place.

"Are you okay?"

"Do I fucking look okay?!" he spat, throwing him the filthiest glare he felt himself capable of. "Let's just get out of here."

Wisely, Archer decided that replying would only enrage the Colonel further, and merely took a step forward, allowing him to put as much pressure on him as he required to make the same movement. He hissed sharply through his teeth as the wounds burned and protested, but he still forced himself to take another step, all too aware of the gashes breaking open once again, and blood rolling steadily to the ground.

The route to the Infirmary was slower than usual, and Roy's footsteps were uneven, as though the alcohol was still affecting his brain. He remained silent throughout the journey, except when he couldn't prevent himself from moaning softly as the pain increased. Thankfully, the hour was still early, and the two of them managed to reach the Infirmary without encountering anyone.

No sooner had they stumbled through the double doors marked with 'Infirmary' in black lettering, was Roy grabbed by two doctors adorning white coats, and placed on an extremely uncomfortable bed. He lay back against the pillows, and exhaled softly in deep gratitude at not having to use his injured legs any more.

"What's he done, now?" asked one of the doctors, directing this at Archer.

"He's been shot," he replied, casting the figure lying in the bed a concerned glance. "Both kneecaps. It was Hell trying to get him up here."

"I'm not surprised," he said disdainfully, turning to inspect Roy. "Can you ever go one day without getting yourself into trouble?"

"It'd be half the fun," he replied, affecting his trademark smirk, though it faltered as the doctor sharply prodded his left kneecap. "How long will it take to heal, doc?"

"Let's concentrate on getting those bullets out of there, first," he sighed. "You won't be walking for a while, I can tell you that."

This was obviously not the answer Roy had been hoping for, as he fell back once again, an annoyed frown twisting his lips. How was he supposed to do his job if he couldn't even walk? Though, he supposed, if Edward was questioned about his injuries, he wouldn't have to work at all. The thought did nothing to comfort him.

He was dimly aware of his bed being wheeled towards the surgery, and he turned around as far as he could, searching for Archer perhaps taking a seat to wait for him, but saw only the double doors swinging to a close. He sighed heavily, and mentally cursed himself. Since when did he value that cold bastard's company, anyway?

He yawned, sudden exhaustion plaguing him, and he could only assume that he had been sedated with something while his mind was elsewhere. He could hear the doctor speaking, but the words refused to register themselves in his mind. Instead, he closed his eyes, and fell into slumber immediately.

* * *

"Frank Archer to see you, Sir." 

Fuhrer Bradley glanced up from his papers, his expression one of faintest amusement. The majority of the soldiers wouldn't be arriving for at least another hour, but Archer always seemed to be early, searching for new ways to earn a promotion.

He pressed the button on the intercom. "Send him in."

Despite the predictability, Archer's latest views on how "things should be done around here" never failed to amuse him. He loved to be the one giving orders, but when conversing with the Fuhrer, his words had to contain a certain edge that was less of a command, and more of a request. He seemed to have perfected that over the years.

The door swung open, and Archer, himself, stepped into view, his right hand raised in a crisp salute, and body perfectly upright in a formal stance.

The Fuhrer chuckled. "At ease, Lieutenant Colonel. What can I do for you today?"

Archer lowered his hand, and said with obvious relish, "It's about Edward Elric, Sir."


	6. Punishment

Ooh, this part was fun to write, in an angsty sort of way. I now have even more plot bunnies, which are equally (if not more) angsty. Don't you just want to bludgeon me with Percy Sledge (the sledgehammer I keep beside my bed) right now? Teehee...

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. If I did, Edo and Roy would live in my closet with all the other famous people I have in there. My closet's like the Tardis (grins).

* * *

Alphonse watched his brother closely from the other side of the miniscule room, his eyes narrowed in thought. Even as the blond mechanic connected his nerves to the automail mechanism he was silent, his gaze focused intently upon the ground as though it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen. He had been uncharacteristically quiet the entire journey back to the dormitories, but Alphonse knew better than to question. If his brother wanted to divulge what was on his mind, he would tell him. It was as simple as that. 

"Wow, I'm impressed, Ed," said Winry, leaning backwards slightly to admire her handiwork. "You're quieter than usual."

The smaller blond gave a cheerless smile. "Just getting used to it, I guess."

Winry bit down on her bottom lip, all too aware of Edward's reluctance to speak, or show any form of emotion, whatsoever. She couldn't deny her curiosity as to what had managed to break through the diminutive alchemist's seemingly impenetrable barrier, but was certain it couldn't be anything remotely pleasant. She gave a barely noticeable wince. The last person to affect him this badly was Nina.

"Ed-"

She was sharply cut off by several loud knocks from the door, and a call of, "Edward Elric?" The blond, and the suit of armor turned to the small alchemist (the latter with a series of _clanks_) who sighed heavily, and got to his feet. Flexing his automail fingers in case the usage of them was required, he pulled open the door, and came face to face with a military officer, his right hand aloft in a salute.

"Major Elric," he said. "The Fuhrer wants to see you immediately."

"Oh?" he murmured dully. "What've I done, now?"

"I don't know, Sir. I'm just the messenger."

Nodding solemnly, Edward followed him out into the corridor, without so much as a backwards glance. Winry made as though to stand and follow him, but froze in her steps as Alphonse held out a hand to prevent her from doing so. She threw him a questioning glance, but all she received was a shake of his helmet in response.

"Brother won't want us eavesdropping." he said simply.

Winry's eyes glinted with annoyance, and she folded her arms across her chest. "Why doesn't he tell us anything, Al? You're his brother. Surely-"

"He's trying to protect me," he murmured solemnly, echoing the words from Riza Hawkeye that had been ricocheting throughout his mind ever since the encounter. "Protect both of us. If we need to know, he'll tell us."

She eyed him disbelievingly for a moment. She had known both Edward and Alphonse since childhood, and even in those days, Edward had been an introverted, reserved character when it came to his emotions. He portrayed arrogance, of course. He had no choice, it was either that, or allow everyone to see what lay in the shadows behind his pupils. That way, people only knew exactly what he wanted them to know.

"I hope so," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I really do."

* * *

Edward purposefully remained several feet behind the officer, as he led him towards the Fuhrer's office. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his scarlet coat, and his gaze fixed upon the ground that his feet pounded, wincing slightly with each metallic _thunk_ as his automail limb made contact with the tiled floor. 

Every step tortured his poor, abused mind. He had enough to consume his thoughts with, like what he had done to warrant an audience with the Fuhrer. He didn't need thoughts of that night, of his mother, plaguing him too. Edward Elric was a lot of things, but he was no fool. Every step until the day they finally found the Philosopher's Stone, and returned their bodies to their normal states would haunt him. That was his punishment.

The officer stood to one side of a pair of double doors, and gestured with one hand that Edward should enter alone. He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, but spoke no words of gratitude, and otherwise acted as though the man did not exist. Exhaling sharply through his teeth in some form of preparation, he pushed open the doors, and walked into the office beyond.

"Ah, Edward," his heart sank the instant those words hit him. The usual jovial tone that the Fuhrer's voice possessed was absent. "Nice of you to join us."

He was seated behind his desk, his hands clasped, and his chin resting upon them. He surveyed the blond impassively, and it took all of Edward's strength to not be intimidated. He averted his gaze, and was stunned to see a wheelchair-bound Roy Mustang to the right of the Fuhrer's desk, staring firmly at his hands and attempting desperately to ignore Edward's presence. That unnerved him enough, and to see Frank Archer standing beside him, failing to keep a smirk from his lips, only worsened the sensation.

Unsure of what else to do, the alchemist stood bolt upright, and raised his right hand in a salute, mentally cursing himself for doing so. The only person he had saluted in his entire military career was (he visibly flinched) Maes Hughes, and the surprise was evident in the Fuhrer's expression, though it disappeared almost instantly.

"Fullmetal," his voice immediately adopted a cold tone. "We have reason to believe that you attacked your commanding officer, Colonel Mustang. Is this true?"

Edward couldn't deny that some part of him had been expecting this from the moment that first bullet had shattered bone. He glanced to Roy for barely a second, and found his fists clenching tightly in his pockets. No doubt the bastard had conveniently forgotten to explain that it had been he who had landed the first blow, and he didn't even have the nerve to look at him. With immense difficulty, Edward managed to control his rage, and turned back to the Fuhrer.

"Yes, Sir."

He nodded. "Why might that have been, Fullmetal?"

Edward felt that ebony gaze upon him for the first time since he had entered the room, though his anger did not dissipate. If he was as malignant as some people believed him to be, what with being a 'Dog of the military' he could destroy the Colonel's career in a matter of seconds, and everything he had worked so hard to achieve would crumble right before his eyes.

_He deserves it_, the crueler portion of his mind hissed. _You couldn't kill him, but this can be your revenge. Let him fall. Let him see what happens when you invoke the wrath of the Fullmetal Alchemist._

He bowed his head. "Lapse of judgment, Sir," he murmured. "I was angry about how my last assignment went, and I took it out on the Colonel. I apologize."

Roy almost toppled out of his chair in shock, his eyes wide, and fixed upon the minute alchemist. He had just thrown away his opportunity for vengeance, to ensure that he was punished for what he had done, without so much as a second thought. There was not so much as a trace of deception in his amber eyes, only remorse that Roy was certain he had to be feigning.

"I'm sure you're aware that such misconduct will not be tolerated, Mr. Elric." said Fuhrer Bradley, his expression not altering.

"I am, Sir."

He nodded slowly. "Then I'm afraid I have no choice," he paused, and Edward drew a deep, silent breath. "You are officially dishonorably discharged from the military of Amestris. Leave your watch here, and I expect you out of the dorms by morning."

Edward did not speak. He simply removed his automail hand from his pocket, and slipped his silver pocket watch from his belt loop. His gaze remained ashamedly upon the carpet as he made the few steps to the Fuhrer's desk, and dropped the watch, where it made a small _clink_ as it made contact with the wood. He turned, ignoring Roy's stunned expression, and walked quickly from the office, softly closing the door behind him.

The extent of what had just happened did not approach him until he was halfway down the corridor, his stance as hunched as ever. Dishonorable discharge. Without that certification, he no longer had any authority to enter the library, where all the information about the Philosopher's Stone resided. He halted, biting down hard on his bottom lip. What was he going to tell Al?

"Edward! Ed!!"

He turned on his heel, and caught sight of Mustang stumbling out of the office, clutching one of his injured knees, but refusing to allow it to deter him from making his way towards the blond. Edward examined his wounds with mild interest, certain that such exercise would be causing them to break open once again, bringing a fresh amount of agony with them.

"You shouldn't be walking, Colonel," he said flatly. "Those knees need to heal."

As expected, Roy ignored him completely, until he was standing directly in front of him, breathing heavily with the effort of forcing movement. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

He glanced around quickly to ensure they were alone, before meeting those amber eyes once again. "Why didn't you tell him what I did? You could have been cleared."

"Since when have I ever cared about my career in the military?" asked Edward. "Besides, this has nothing to do with that. This is because I shot you. I have to take responsibility for my actions."

"What about the Stone?" hissed Roy, his eyes wide with concern and pain, unable to register the sudden show of maturity from the teen. "What about Alphonse? What about-"

"Get some rest," he said, turning back around and beginning to walk at a pace he knew Mustang would be unable to keep up with. "You need it."

Roy simply stared at his rapidly retreating back, barely noticing when Archer took a firm hold of him and guided him back to his wheelchair, muttering something about his stupidity. What Edward had just done for him was something he couldn't possibly begin to fathom. He had just senselessly thrown away his chance at restoring his and his brother's bodies, and for what? Pride? Was he refusing to admit that he had been so weak as to allow the Colonel to attack him in the first place?

He stared down at his knees, a familiar guilt welling in the pit of his stomach, though lacking in the self-pity that had once been so comforting to him in the aftermath of the Ishbal Rebellion. Whatever Edward's reasons were, Roy now owed him everything, and right then and there, he made a solemn vow to never forget what he had done for him. Someday he would repay him.


	7. Isolation

**Fun Fact:** I need a shower (grins)

Longest part yet, folks! Thanks and cookies and Twinkies and all that good stuff to everyone who reviewed and alerted and favorited and all _that_ good stuff! The amount of times I've read one of your reviews and just sat there grinning like an idiot for about five minutes...Anyway! On with disclaimer and then on with story!

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. You can sue me if you like, but I'm a student, so all of my money is in the form of Ramen noodles. Mmm, Ramen...

* * *

Edward's mind drifted blankly through the seemingly endless sea of thoughts that ricocheted throughout his brain as he made his way along the hallway, his focus anywhere but where he was heading. Something deep inside of him was aching, causing a burning pain to flood his entire body, but he refused to allow it to affect him, for now at least. No, his emotions would be contained as always, until he was finally alone. 

He usually selected _his_ alleyway when he required isolation, but that bastard Mustang had eradicated it, leaving him with nothing but a useless pile of brick. Coming to think of it, he thought bitterly, kicking out at the sidewalk, he had a lot of things to blame Mustang for. Under normal circumstances, he would quite happily march up to the arrogant Colonel and screech out everything that irritated him, from his smirk (God, how he despised that smirk), to the way he somehow managed to get away with his chronic procrastination. These, however, were not normal circumstances.

He swung his automail foot with ferocity that would result in permanent brain damage if Winry caught him, and was startled to discover it connecting with a park bench, creating a resounding metallic _thunk_. Stopping dead, he glanced around in amazement, realizing only then that he had actually vacated the premises of Central Headquarters. The street was somewhat familiar, he decided, certain that he had seen it somewhere before, most likely in the dead of night, and continued his route, all traces of rage forgotten.

It was almost as though a dark cloud had descended over him, enveloping his anger and leaving only the darkest pits of depression that he had hoped to never visit again. He couldn't place all the blame on Roy. How had the argument begun, after all? Because he had insulted him, breaking the unspoken rule that the Ishbal Massacre was never to be discussed in the Colonel's presence, and then refused him what he wanted: an act even more taboo in Roy's book than Human Transmutation. Perhaps if he had just-

He violently shook his head, in a futile attempt to clear it. How could he have known that things would have escalated as far as they did? The Colonel's drunken intentions for him had been clear that night, and he never would have forgiven himself if he had allowed it to happen. The self-loathing that welled in the pit of his stomach would be even greater than it already was.

Sighing dejectedly, he took a right at the next intersection, deciding to head for the warehouse district, and find himself a new alleyway to spend the night crumpled on the ground of. He couldn't face going back to Alphonse with the news that his own recklessness had cost him everything, _again_. He would return, of course. He couldn't leave his brother alone, and no doubt he would locate him and admonish his idiocy before sunrise anyway. But right now, he craved the silence, the freedom of being able to lower his guard, with no one around to see what a feeble shell he had become.

It wasn't long before the buildings and houses gave way to warehouses with broken windows, and doors hanging limply from their hinges, creaking eerily in the slight breeze. The streets were derelict here, devoid of even their usual staggering drunkards that strangely resembled Roy. He was thankful for this. He wasn't certain he could handle the endless pleas to "Spare some change, mister?" when his head seemed about to explode at any moment.

He found himself standing outside one of these warehouses, the filthiest of all of them it seemed from the outside, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He had found himself here far too often, it had always been where he headed if the comfort of the alleyway was doing nothing to assist him. He was insane, he had to be. Why else would he return, time and time again, when nothing pleasant ever resulted from it? He loathed this place almost as much as that smirk of Mustang's, but there was something about it that fascinated him. Something dangerous that he couldn't resist, no matter how hard he tried.

"Shit," he hissed softly, lightly closing his eyes. "_Shit_."

There was no point in fighting it, he supposed. He couldn't hide forever, and the faster he ran, the quicker his past would catch up to him. Sighing, he pushed the pathetic excuse for a door aside, and slipped into the building beyond.

The sole source of light came from a flickering street lamp across the road, which he knew would give him a headache, but that was the least of his worries. His sharp eyes averted quickly throughout the miniscule room, though he found nothing but sinister shadows, and the flea-infested couch that resided in the center of the room.

His shoulders sank in relief as he deciphered the room was empty of it's usual loathsome inhabitant, and he threw himself down on the couch, drawing his knees to his chest, and wrapping his arms around them to serve as some form of comfort. Only then, soothed by the darkness, did his entire body begin to violently shake, and the tears fell from his eyes quicker than he could even think about stopping them.

It was over. He had failed.

* * *

He groaned quietly, leaning backwards and gently massaging his neck in an attempt to banish the dull ache that resulted from stooping over the same rickety desk for several hours. His eyes burned as he glanced over the latest document he had signed without even reading the contents, and found himself reading the same line three times without registering any of the words.

He sighed in resignation, raking his hands through his unkempt crop of ebony hair. It had been six months since his last encounter with Edward, and in that space of time the alchemist seemed to have disappeared completely. He had searched, of course he had, once his knees had healed enough to manage short distances, though found nothing. Even Alphonse seemed at a loss as to where his brother had vanished.

He glanced up sharply as the door creaked open, his guard automatically in place, and fingers reaching for the pistol he had taken to keeping on his person at all times. His defense faltered as a familiar figure slipped into the room, holding a hand to his mouth to cover a particularly large yawn.

"Roy," he said, fixing his piercing crystal eyes upon him. "If you're gonna work until four in the morning, can you remember to give me the keys?"

The Colonel stared at him in obvious confusion for a moment, before the meaning of his words finally approached him, and he gave a small, sheepish smile. He owed his unusually quick recovery to Frank Archer. Were it not for him offering to stay with him until his strength returned, he would most likely have gone insane from his inability to reach the drinks cabinet from his wheelchair.

"Yeah, sorry," he replied, rubbing his exhausted eyes with the back of his hand. "I was about to leave, anyway. I'm not getting anywhere."

"Paperwork driving you crazy?" Frank asked sympathetically.

He nodded, drawing his limbs into something that vaguely resembled an upright position, and stretched, causing Frank to grimace at how several of his bones cracked. "I've probably approved a thousand stupid proposals tonight," he groaned thoughtfully. "I hope there was one asking for comfier chairs."

Shaking his head in desperation, Frank opened the door once again, and the pair left the office in silence, attempting to disguise their fatigue in case they were spotted by any of their superiors. Roy managed it easily, since he was all too used to straightening up from his desk and realizing the sun had already come up. Frank however, clearly did not have much experience where all-nighters were concerned, and was forever yawning behind his hand, and uncomfortably rubbing the back of his neck.

Roy smirked at him. "You're a soldier. You're not allowed to sleep."

Attempting to prevent yet another yawn, Frank threw him a glare. "Shut up, Colonel," he replied good-naturedly. "Just because _you're_ an insomniac, doesn't mean the rest of us have to be."

"Since you fall under my command, Archer, that means you do," said Roy, inwardly rejoicing at having someone to taunt once again. "I hope you like coffee."

They reached Roy's apartment within minutes, and the instant he unlocked the door, Archer threw himself down on the couch, and groaned softly. Amused, but deciding to leave him to get the sleep he clearly needed, Roy walked into the miniscule room that qualified as the kitchen, and removed his jacket, draping it over the back of one of the chairs.

With a sigh, he set about his ritual, that commenced each night, the instant he returned from Headquarters. He pulled open the cabinet, and removed a half empty bottle of Whiskey, furrowing his brow in confusion. He was certain there had been more just last night. Shrugging, he sat down, and unscrewed the cap, pouring the majority of the enclosed liquid down his throat in one gulp, without any regard to the unpleasant, yet familiar burning sensation.

The bottle emptied, it didn't take long for the pain in his limbs to fade, and he found a crooked smirk twisting his lips. He savored this portion of the night while he could, all too aware that it would be quick to disappear, and his old friend Guilt would take it's place. Sure enough, just as he attempted to stand, he collapsed back into his seat as the voice that chilled his insides laughed in his face.

"_Look at what you've done, Roy,_" it jeered. "_Edward's probably dead because of you._"

"No," he hissed immediately. "No he isn't."

"_Of course he is. He's just a kid. An innocent little kid, and you as good as killed him._"

"It was his choice," he said. "He could've gotten me fired, but he took the blame instead."

"_And why do you think that is?_" asked Guilt. "_He knows that you want to become Fuhrer, so there's never another Ishbal. He did this for you, for your career. If you'd just killed yourself right after the massacre, none of this would have happened."_

"Shut up!" Roy bellowed. "Shut up! You're wrong! This isn't-"

"Who're you talking to?"

For the second time of the night, Roy looked up expecting to find an enemy, and only saw a sleep-deprived Frank standing in the doorway, his eyebrows raised. The expression gave way to understanding as he spotted the empty bottle of Whiskey that was now lying on the floor, and he sighed.

"C'mon, Roy," he said. "You need to get some sleep."

"I killed him," he whispered, and Frank was certain that if he had any less pride, he would be sobbing with grief. "Edward...Edward...I killed him..."

"He's a tough kid," said Frank, helping his companion to his feet. "He won't go down without a fight. I'm sure he's fine."

Roy wasn't convinced, but the comforting words consoled him as he clambered into his bed, swallowing hard as the room began spinning, as it always did the instant his head hit the pillow. He bit down on his bottom lip, and turned slightly, catching a glimpse of his bedroom door being pulled to a close.

"Frank!"

He winced. He hadn't meant that to slip out.

The door opened once again, and Frank shot him a questioning glance. Before he had a chance to speak, Frank smiled faintly in understanding, and crossed the room, slipping into the bed beside him without a trace of unease, almost as though he had been expecting Roy to call him back. Too tired and drunk for conspiracy theories, Roy simply pulled him close, resting his head on his shoulder, and fell asleep within minutes.


	8. The Cost Of Control

I know, this took _so _long to finish. I hit a writer's wall (Oh, no. Not writer's block. An actual, ginormous wall) and every time I sat down and thought to myself, "Right! I'm gonna finish this!" I stared at it for about five minutes before I decided to watch Bottom instead.

Incoming angsty flashback! The last three paragraphs that aren't in _Italics _are present day.

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Fullmetal Alchemist, much as I'd like to. I think I'll just stick with owning a bad-tempered evil cat, since I can't draw to save my life.

* * *

**-Six Months Ago-**

_Edward awoke with a start as a particularly heavy leather bound book slipped from the table, courtesy of his automail elbow, and hit the ground, creating a resounding _thunk_ that earned him several disdainful glances from the building's other occupants. Ignoring them completely, he stooped down to retrieve the unhelpful tome, and tossed it lazily onto the dangerously teetering pile in front of him._

_A quick glance to his pocket watch (and the tiniest of winces, as he always did when he caught a glimpse of the engraving, done by his own hand) informed him that the hour was late, or early, depending on which way you looked at it: 2:27am, to be exact. He sighed heavily, his amber eyes flicking to the books in annoyance. He had returned from his latest futile attempt at locating the Philosopher's Stone months ago, and ever since, he had spent his every waking hour here, desperately searching for something, anything that could lead him to the whereabouts of the mythological object._

_Groaning to himself, he viciously rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. There had to be something that he was missing, something so simple that his mind simply would not allow it to even be contemplated. His head hit the desk with another (hollow, he noted miserably) thunk. Perhaps he was just incompetent. After all, how could he possibly be a prodigy when he couldn't even decipher how to return his own brother to his rightful body?_

_"Um...Mr. Elric?"_

_Grunting in some frustrated response, he glanced up, and found the librarian, Scieszka, standing at the foot of the desk he was occupying, uncomfortably tugging at the arms of her spectacles. Instead of questioning, he simply arched an annoyed eyebrow, as though to request that she said what she had come to say, and left, preferably quickly._

_Apparently sensing this message, she flushed a deep scarlet. "Mr. Elric," she repeated. "I'm afraid the library is closed. Well, actually, it closed hours ago, but you were asleep so I thought I'd..." she trailed off helplessly as she realized the blond was simply staring at her, his chin resting on his palm, and expression of faint amusement. She flushed again. "Well...you can...see yourself out."_

_With haste that only fear could invoke in her, she turned abruptly on her heel and had vanished from sight within seconds. Sighing in desperation, Edward got to his feet, and somehow managed to hold the vast amount of books in his arms with ease that surprised even himself. He replaced them on their respective shelves, before shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his scarlet coat, and vacating the premises._

_His feet had barely touched the cool stone of the steps leading up to the enormous building when he felt the cruel wind against his body. The pressure of it was almost enough to force him back into the wall, but he grit his teeth and simply continued his path. In his head, he began one of his famous short rants, directed at the wind, itself, interspersed with curses that usually earned a disdainful sigh of, "Brother!" when spoken aloud._

_He grimaced as the familiar sensation that his pupils were aflame approached him, though he refused to alter his pace because of something so insignificant. Instead, he simply averted his gaze from the cruel hue of any street lamps that he happened to pass, and kept to the back streets as often as possible._

_He did not fear the dangers that lurked in the shadows, awaiting their latest prey. In fact, he almost longed for a confrontation with someone moronic enough to attack the Fullmetal Alchemist. The irritation from another useless night of searching was perfectly evident in his expression, and he couldn't think of a more enjoyable method of releasing his fury._

_He glanced up slightly so as to decipher his whereabouts, and his entire body went rigid. Unbeknownst to him, his uneven gait had directed him to **his** alleyway, though he was not alone in his unconscious longing for isolation. Standing several feet from him was a figure, clad in the standard issue State Military uniform, though his face was hidden by shadow. Despite this, Edward knew that he was looking directly at him, as he shivered beneath the piercing gaze. Something about it made him want to start running, but his feet refused to respond, and he simply remained stationary._

_He flinched as he felt a cruel smirk twisting the figure's lips, and the voice that followed it chilled his insides, invoking another shiver, though he managed to control himself, most likely out of pride._

_"Edward Elric. What're you doing out so late?"_

_He swallowed hard as the figure turned his head, and he caught his first glimpse of cold, crystal eyes, that had never once failed to intimidate him. His eyebrows were raised in amusement, and his smirk had not faltered. Edward had to endure a vicious mental battle to prevent himself from backing away, as he knew it would only anger him._

_He rested a hand on his hip, affecting the arrogance that had once come so easy to him. "I could say the same for you. Aren't you supposed to be working?"_

_The truth was (Though he would take it to his grave, of course) Edward was afraid. He had faced enemies of unspeakable horror during his quest for the Philosopher's Stone, but nothing compared to the damage Frank Archer had inflicted upon him, even when he had only recently received his certification. When he was nothing more than a child._

_He had first found himself crumpled halfway down this same alleyway the day he had been attacked by Barry the Chopper, when any defense he had once possessed had been truly shattered. That was also the night when he was first introduced to Lieutenant Colonel Archer. He had never quite forgotten the occasion, and still awoke screaming from painful recollections, much to the concern of his brother._

_Since that night, his usual insolence was feigned, and Edward became much more hostile, for fear of anybody daring to look deep within him and discovering that particular skeleton in his closet, which he had attempted so desperately to lock away. His mental stability slipping, he couldn't even protest when Frank decided he wasn't yet finished with him._

_Frank's smirk broadened. "When I have much more important business here, how could I?"_

_Edward tightly clenched his fists in his pockets to prevent them from shaking. "And, uh...what might that be?"_

_"I think you know."_

_He knew. Even if he had been ignorant of the Colonel's intentions, it certainly became clear when a pair of hands found his shoulders, gripping them with exactly the amount of pressure to earn a wince, and forcing him to step backwards until his back hit the opposite wall. Frank furrowed his brow in annoyance. The blond had gradually become more docile towards him over the years, there had even been a period of time when he couldn't even manage to meet his gaze._

_Edward was looking at him now. His eyes were hollow, completely devoid of the fire that had once offered the taller figure so much amusement. He glanced down at the hands that held him in place, before meeting those glacial eyes once again, with emotion that resembled faint intrigue. This routine was familiar. Once Frank was satisfied, he would throw him to the ground and leave him there to wallow in his misery until the next round. He just wanted this to be over._

_Frank sighed, drawing his index finger across the child's cheekbone. "What happened to you, Edward? You were so much better when you at least responded."_

_Expression not altering in the slightest, Edward said softly, "You did."_

_The Colonel's eyes flickered with momentary rage, and he drew back his hand, slapping him hard with one quick flick of his wrist. Edward blinked as his mind registered the dull sensation of pain, though he refused to allow himself to react. Instead, he simply turned his head, and met Frank's gaze once again._

_Frank traced the area of flesh that burned scarlet with rarely seen compassion, his fingertips barely grazing skin, as though to avoid causing any further pain. Edward was not fooled. All he was doing was luring him into a false sense of security in the hope of a response, when he could finally resist the tortured child no longer._

"Stay calm," _his mind ordered frantically. _"It'll be over soon, just like it always is. All you have to do is stay calm. Don't let him win. Don't let him see that he's hurting you. Just-"

_Rational thought escaped him as the Colonel stooped down, and crashed his lips to his with his usual ferocity. Immediately, Edward forced his body to fall limp, and he tightly closed his eyes to hide his revulsion. He felt a hand entangling itself in his hair, whilst the other dropped to his waist, absently caressing his hip, which jutted through his flesh in a manner that looked extremely painful._

_A second later, Edward felt concrete against his already bruised cheek as he was thrown bodily to the ground, and crumpled there, unmoving. His limbs were twisted uncomfortably beneath his body, but he held the position, unwilling to give the Colonel the satisfaction of seeing him respond._

_A sharp kick to his side forced him to roll over onto his back, and he gazed up through half open eyes at the figure towering above him. Under normal circumstances, this would have already been over. Why was he prolonging the experience? The question felt needless even within his mind. Frank Archer thrived on the knowledge that he was in control, that he could manipulate and dominate anybody he saw fit. This was just a game to him._

_His breath escaped him as the taller figure seated himself quite comfortably on his chest, seemingly perfectly aware that he was crushing the child's ribcage, as the smirk never once left his lips. Suddenly lacking in oxygen, Edward choked, and regretted it instantly as the smirk broadened._

_Frank stooped down to kiss him once again, and his fingers delicately traced the flesh of his muscular stomach, before dropping to the cool metal of his belt. He smirked slightly against the child's lips as he felt him tense beneath him. No matter how frantically he attempted to deny how much he was affected by what Frank inflicted upon him, his body always failed him._

_He sighed softly, and sharply unbuckled his belt, causing the entirety of the lower half of his body to jolt, and his pupils dilated slightly as the familiar apprehension took up residence in the pit of his stomach, despite his futile attempt at disguising it._

_"It's been too long, Edward." murmured Frank, hooking his fingers into the waistband of his leather pants, and dragging them down his thighs painfully, purposefully, slowly._

_Unsurprisingly, Edward did not share this notion, though he didn't dare voice it. Instead, he forced the anger and pain to the back of his mind, as he always seemed to do these days, and stared blankly into the Colonel's cruel, merciless pupils, not failing to notice that they were clouded by lust that made him sick to his stomach._

_Frank's hands had barely grazed his boxers when both of them started at a sudden annoyed slur that could have been a curse, and the distinct thump of someone stumbling from the sidewalk. He glanced up sharply, the blond in his possession momentarily forgotten, and a moment later he was on his feet, absently brushing the dirt from his pants as though nothing had happened._

_"I'll meet you at the warehouse," he said, his tone cold as ever, though still somehow containing a threatening hint. "Don't make me come find you."_

_Edward had only to blink, and his tormentor had disappeared as though he was never there at all. He remained in his awkward sprawled position for almost a full minute, before coming to his senses, and managing to connect the concept of returning his pants to their normal position with his poor mind. Clawing at the ground, he found the wall closest to him, and pressed his back against it, hissing quietly as the soothing damp seeped through his coat and eased the burning of his flesh._

_The uneven footsteps were growing louder as the unwelcome figure approached, though Edward kept his gaze upon the ground, almost ashamedly. He knew perfectly well that he was pallid, except for the bruises that littered his entire body, and his bloodshot eyes were threatening to pour with tears any moment. He couldn't handle someone else seeing how weak and fragile he really was._

_He silently begged this intruder to pass him by, to ignore the depths of the alleyway that had once been comforting to him, but the footsteps grew louder still, and he caught his first glimpse of the figure out of the corner of his eye. He had to viciously fight with his body to prevent himself from flinching as his mind registered the all too familiar State Military uniform._

_The soldier staggered towards him, and with some difficulty, maneuvered around his splayed limbs. Once he found himself on the other side of both the automail and the flesh, he collapsed ungracefully into a seated position, grinning proudly to himself._

_Edward had suspected the identity of the figure the instant he caught sight of him staggering drunkenly towards him, and was left in no doubt as those glazed onyx eyes fixed themselves upon him, scrutinizing him, almost judging him, the less rational side of his brain accused. Relishing this rare bout of true anger, the child silently cursed Colonel Roy Mustang, and not for the first time in his life. What right did he even have to be here? The longer he kept Frank waiting, the more he defied him, the worse his punishment would be. He needed this to be over._

_Roy seemed to sense the darkness in his eyes, as his eyebrows raised slightly, and he managed to force out a, surprisingly coherent in his state, "What'cha...doin' here, Fullmetal?" _

Edward had almost laughed as the obviously intoxicated Colonel referred to him by the title he loathed. The rage he had been holding back for months had no difficulty escaping him in his presence, and for that moment, he was free. He was that child again, the one he believed to have long since faded at Frank Archer's hand.

He paid dearly for it, of course. Now that fleeting moment of unfathomable fury had passed, he sat, thankfully alone, on the cold ground of the warehouse he had no choice but to claim as his own, his heart aching with regret. If only. If only he had been as docile towards Roy as he had grown accustomed to being with Frank, he would still have his certification. He would still have his _brother_.

In the depths of the alleyway that now plagued his dreams, he had made his choice. Now all he had for comfort was the knowledge that the wounds would heal, the pure white scars that covered his pallid flesh would eventually fade, and each night, when his merciless tormentor was finally finished with him, there was nobody to see his tears.


	9. Broken

Hmm. I'm not too sure about this one. I know where I want to go (Thank God for Plot Bunny documents) and it did the job of getting me to where I want to be for me to have some angsty fun (Can't go wrong with a bit of that) but...eh, it could be better. I'll fix it. Later. Maybe.

Heh, I even procrastinate on my procrastinating...

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. There's so many characters and I'm too lazy to deal with them all when they have problems with my love of angst. Maybe I should get a secretary to file all my character's complaints? Hmmm...

* * *

Roy had been staring at the clock for four hours. His eyes were bloodshot, and burned a vicious scarlet from countless nights passed using exactly the same method of gazing blankly into space as he was employing now. A dull ache had taken up residence in his head around ten minutes after he had picked up his favorite bottle and decided that fixing his gaze upon the clock was a good idea, though he still continued to watch the hands moving painfully slowly about the clock face, each faint _tick_ alarming to his ears, and worsening the pain in his head.

He couldn't actually recall why he was sitting at the table, in a room bathed completely in darkness, and a half-empty bottle of Scotch in his shaking left hand. His burning eyes seemed to have simply found the clock of their own accord, and since then had not found the energy, or motivation required to turn his head and find something else to stare at. He groaned softly, though still did not alter his position. The steady rhythm had ceased to be comforting hours ago, and now only served as something else to assist his already chronic insomnia.

He raised the bottle to his lips in the hope of numbing the ache, when a sudden loud creaking distracted him, which he managed to connect after several moments of frantic thinking, with the sound of the front door opening, and softly closing once again. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he averted his gaze to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, spilling the alcohol that had been intended for his already tarnished liver down the front of his shirt without even realizing. He caught the familiar sound of highly polished shoes being kicked to the carpet with a sigh, before a set of footsteps approached, and the harsh light of the small room flickered on, throwing the figure in the doorway into sharp relief.

He remained there for a moment, his eyebrows raised in faint amusement and lips twisted into the ghost of a smile, before he crossed the room, and took the seat opposite the sleep-deprived Lieutenant Colonel, hooking the bottle from his slack hand without his notice.

"So," he murmured casually, inspecting the label and grimacing at the contents. "Are you gonna tell me what's wrong or do I have to ask?"

His drunken, docile companion stared at the table for a moment, his eyes narrowed in thought, or perhaps in protest against the vicious amber light, he wasn't certain. Frank Archer was quite a patient man under normal circumstances, but tonight, he was feeling particularly calm, and waited for several minutes for the Colonel's unresponsive mind to formulate a reply.

The vacant, onyx eyes gazed back into his, and he replied with an intelligent, "Uh?"

"When was the last time you slept?" asked Frank, his expression solemn.

"Um..." Roy raked an awkward hand through his unkempt hair. "When the Infirmary was still giving me painkillers. Those things are nifty..."

"I thought so," he gave a small, despairing smile. "Want to talk about it?"

The effect of his simple words was instant. The faint hint of sorrow that only excessive drinking could invoke in him disappeared from those exquisite onyx eyes, as though it had never been present at all, and the usual cold glint replaced it, signifying that the Colonel's guard was once more in place. He loathed having people bear witness to his moments of weakness, which had become much more frequent since Edward had run away, even..._especially_ the people he trusted. The people he loved. They didn't need to see him this way.

"No," he mumbled sharply, annoyance clear in his tone. "Gimme my drink back."

As though to emphasize his order, Roy leaned across the table that separated him from his companion, and attempted to retrieve the bottle that Frank was holding just out of his reach. He was sitting perfectly stationary, his expression of faint intrigue, until Roy's fingers were barely grazing the cool glass of the desired bottle, and the instant he caught the tiny _clink_ of nail upon glass, he edged backwards, unable to prevent himself from smirking.

"You only drink when you're upset."

Roy's eyes flickered with rage. "I'm _not_ upset!"

He lunged forward, but Frank kicked his chair backwards once again, resulting in a loud _thump_ as Roy found himself sprawled upon the table, still reaching wildly for the bottle that wasn't about to get any closer any time soon. He fell limp with a sigh as the dawning realization of how pathetic he was being hit him, and he averted his gaze ashamedly to the ground.

Such displays of emotion, even when invoked by his usual choice of liquor, were considered to be weaknesses: that was his belief. It had been for as long as he could, or wanted to remember, and the knowledge that he was lying upon his kitchen table, desperately attempting to reach a bottle that would only worsen his hangover when daylight finally approached, caused a knot to well in the pit of his stomach that quickly made him nauseous.

Smiling faintly, Frank reached out and ran his fingers through his drunken companion's jet-black hair with his free hand. "You can have it, Roy," he said softly. "All you have to do is tell me what's wrong."

The Colonel contemplated this for a moment, soothed by the rare comforting gesture. He desperately craved that Scotch. He loathed all of these emotions that served only to bewilder him in his state, and he was unsure of how much longer he could handle this horrific hybrid of concern, guilt, self-loathing and anger directed at nothing and everything all at once. At that moment, he would have sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for a loss of consciousness.

"Edward." he croaked, unfocused eyes directed at the table upon which he had yet to move from.

Frank's smile altered to become a malicious smirk, for reasons known only to him and a certain blond he had met with only that night. "What about him?"

"He gave up...everything for me," the guilt increased as he finally voiced what had been haunting him for the past six months. "Just so I could keep my job," he felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. "I don't even _want_ it any more. I just want him back. I want to...to tell him I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

Forcing his cold, crystal eyes to reflect concern instead of the immense pride his actions gave him was no easy task, but Frank was becoming steadily more proficient at deceiving the Colonel, with every night that he spent at the warehouse. It was almost too easy to force a smile, and lower his hand to his jaw, taking his chin in his hand and giving him no choice but to look up at him.

"Roy," he murmured. "Edward's strong, you know that better than most. Wherever he is, I'm sure he's doing fine."

"Why isn't he back yet?" the Colonel demanded. "Why hasn't anybody found him?" he wailed helplessly. "Because he's dead, goddamnit! I killed him! I took everything from him and left him to make a life for himself on the streets!"

"Roy..."

"Ishbal should've been enough," Roy acted as though Frank had not even spoken. "Should've been enough lives to ruin. Oh, no. Not for me. I tried to use him 'cause I was drunk and lonely, and when he fought back, I dropped a fucking alleyway on him. What the Hell kinda person does tha-"

He was cut off abruptly as Frank's fist made harsh contact with his cheek, breaking him from his self-pity and returning him to the reality he'd much rather exist without. He blinked in confusion for almost a full minute, his hand rising to tentatively examine his new bruise. This routine was much too familiar for comfort.

He should have seen the punch coming, and perhaps he would have were it not for his intoxication. With recollections of the Ishbal Massacre so clear in his mind as always, so were the memories of the only person who had seen him for the wreck that he was. It had been the fist of Maes Hughes that had wrenched him from his misery all those years ago, and now Frank was doing exactly the same. He scoffed loudly. He didn't deserve this. He hadn't deserved it then, and nothing whatsoever had changed. He was a hopelessly predictable being.

Frank dropped his gaze, and when he spoke, Roy was surprised to note a trace of guilt in his tone. "I'm sorry."

As though in response, a white-hot pain shot through his forehead, and he gave a small grimace. He knew perfectly well that Frank had no reason to apologize when the fault was his, though he didn't have the energy to voice his thoughts. All his mind managed to conjure was that his coat was draped over the back of the armchair in the next room, and within one of the pockets was his wallet. The nearest squalid, unpleasant bar was only five minutes away. He needed to get out of here.

"Forget it," he muttered, drawing his limbs into an upright position with some difficulty, and getting to his feet. "I'm going...somewhere. I'll be back. Later."

Frank looked up sharply, his eyebrows raised. "Roy, it's 2am."

Roy completely ignored him, or perhaps his words had not even registered themselves in his brain, as he simply walked into the living room, and grabbed his jacket in shaking hands. He swiftly left the house whilst attempting to wrench it on back to front, though the state of his attire was the furthest thing from his mind. It was only after he had softly closed the door behind him, and begun to walk the streets that he realized that Frank had not even bothered to call him back. He gave a cheerless smile. Either Frank knew that he could not be deterred in his state, or he had finally come to his senses and deciphered that he was wasting his time, that both of them would be better off if Roy Mustang finished himself off with the assistance of a few bottles of Scotch.

These less than pleasant thoughts continued to haunt the Colonel even after he had taken a seat at one of the barstools, and ordered his usual liquor. He found himself staring blankly into the murky depths of it's contents, and swirling the contained liquid around exactly as he had done the night he had found himself in Edward's company. He sighed heavily. All he wanted was to forget. Was that so wrong? Was it so selfish to want to finally be able to sleep without being awakened by all of the people who had met their end by his hand?

Tightening his grip around the glass, he brought it to his lips, and knocked his head back, draining the Scotch within seconds. He had taken innocent lives, and done his part in the genocide of the Ishbalan race, for reasons that did not even exist. He knew he was being punished, but to take his own life was meaningless. He thought he had understood that after his confrontation with Maes. No, he had to ensure that such suffering was never inflicted again. He had to earn Edward's sacrifice.

He raised his right hand to signal to the bartender that he required another Scotch, though it dropped to the wood of the bar almost instantly. He had turned his head in order to locate aforementioned employee, and out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a small table, shadowed by darkness almost purposefully. Only one figure was sitting here, and his face was mostly covered by long, golden hair. He was wearing a short-sleeved black shirt, which clearly revealed his right arm was a prosthetic, and he was gently massaging his forehead with his flesh hand, his expression pained.

"Can I help you, Sir?"

Roy whipped around in irritation, only to find the bartender standing opposite him, his eyebrows raised expectantly. "Oh," he mumbled. "Uh...another Scotch, please."

He waited until he had moved away before he turned back to the table that had caught his interest, and his eyes narrowed. Another figure was standing at the table, though as he was facing the blond and had his back to the Colonel, Roy could not identify him. The smaller of the two had backed himself into the corner, and was staring determinedly at the ground. His impassive demeanor was clearly feigned, as even from where he was sitting, Roy could see the boy's hand shaking uncontrollably.

"What do you want?" he was speaking in barely a whisper, and Roy had to strain to catch his words.

"You know what." the other replied, his tone so cold and demanding that it invoked a shudder.

The blond looked up in shock, and Roy was left in no doubt as to his identity as he caught sight of a pair of amber eyes from beneath long, blond bangs. A long, deep gash ran from beneath his right eye to his jaw, and he seemed to be fighting back tears with all his might. The agony in those eyes broke Roy's heart.

"You said..." he whispered brokenly. "Once...just once...you _promised_."

His clearly unwelcome companion laughed maliciously. "I've missed hearing you beg, kid. Get up."

His voice was quiet, though the contained threat was obvious. Swallowing hard in some attempt at preparation, the blond got to his feet, realizing that his legs were reluctant to hold him only when he attempted to put weight on them, and almost fell forwards. Impatient, the dark-haired figure grabbed his flesh arm with enough pressure to cause him to wince, and dragged him from the bar.

Roy stared after them, his jaw slack. His ecstasy at locating Edward was short-lived, and now he could do nothing but fear for him. He didn't have to be sober to know that the boy was terrified, and judging by the wound on his face, he was perfectly justified in being so. He turned back to his latest drink and stared at it, biting down hard on his bottom lip. The bartender's insistence that he pay for it passed unnoticed as the conversation he had just overheard replayed over and over in his mind, and he frantically attempted to identify the person who could invoke such fear in the Fullmetal Alchemist.

His shoulders sank in defeat only moments later. Even if he _did_ manage to identify him, what could he do? Edward would want nothing to do with him after all he had inflicted, all the suffering he had caused him, and frankly, Roy couldn't blame him. Doubtlessly, if he tried to intervene, he would only cause the tortured boy more pain. It would be safer if he just kept his distance.

Sighing, he retrieved his wallet, and threw the required amount of money down on the bar. Without hesitation, he picked up his fresh glass, and knocked back it's contents with a faint hiss as it scorched it's way down his already damaged throat. No matter how he tried to convince himself, he couldn't prevent the unease from welling in his stomach, or the shivers from crawling down his spine. Something was desperately wrong, here.

Just what had Edward gotten himself into?


	10. Poisoned Protection

This took forever, I know, and I apologize. I was debating between two short parts, and one long part for a while, and eventually decided on this. Hopefully the fact that it's twice as long as all my others will make up for it?

**Important Author's Note: **This part contains two scenes of yaoi (malexmale) neither of them particularly graphic, but this is your warning. If you don't read anything like that, you can skip those parts, but don't message me saying I never warned you they were coming, 'cause here it is. Okie? Thank you. Have a nice day.

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. I bought 4, 5 and 6 of the manga a couple weeks back, but I don't think that counts.

* * *

Edward stumbled from the bar, his flesh forearm firmly in the grasp of his merciless tormentor. Each time he attempted to draw breath he choked, and he was all too aware of his heart thudding rapidly beneath his ribcage. Barely an hour had passed since he had looked into the dominating crystal eyes of the man he loathed, and the faint tracks of tears were still present upon his bruised cheeks. His heart still ached with disgust, directed at himself, and himself alone. He wasn't strong enough to fight any more. He was pathetically emaciated, bones jutting through flesh so drastically they seemed about to puncture it any minute, and he had given up on alchemy the night he deserted the one person he lived for.

His eyes downcast, he obediently followed a step behind the latest addition to his inner turmoil, who could freeze him in his steps with a simple glance, and cause his breath to catch in his throat, doing his utmost to prevent himself from thinking of what else could possibly be done to destroy the fragile amount of sanity Frank had allowed him to keep. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his automail hand, fingers tucked into his belt loop with surprising nonchalance, though they were shivering violently. He gave a bitter smile, and kicked out at the sidewalk. He couldn't even disguise his fear any more. Perhaps if he was that weak, he deserved this.

He felt the grip around his forearm tighten a split-second before he was wrenched into the once comforting darkness of an alleyway, and he collapsed to his knees, grimacing as the bruises that Frank would not allow to fade made harsh contact with the ground. He drew breath sharply through gritted teeth to prevent himself from whimpering, and his fists clenched so tightly that his nails drew blood from his palms. Once he had managed to regulate his short gasps of breath, and the sharp twinges of pain were under some form of control, he raised his head.

The instant he caught sight of those malicious, dark amber eyes, he felt the wrath of a standard issue State Military boot against his jaw, and he fell backwards, groaning quietly. He attempted to move the recipient of his latest injury, and found the bone cracked at the slightest motion, causing a sharp slash of pain to hit him. He counted his blessings. This way he wouldn't be able to scream even if he wanted to.

From above him, he tutted. "Pathetic."

Gathering his courage, Edward drew his shaking body once more into an upright position, and managed to choke out, "Kimbley...Why...are you-"

For the third time in less than a minute, he found his fragile body collapsing to the ground, though this time the sharp explosion of pain was centered in his chest. He swallowed back a pained response; even the tiniest of sounds was indication that he was beaten, that he really was as defenseless as he believed himself to be, and averted his gaze to the figure who still towered above him. The vicious smirk upon his lips drove uncomfortable prickles down his spine.

The child was exhausted, and even if the concept of retaliation wouldn't result in punishment (which it would. It always did) both his body and mind were much too weak to even attempt it. Instead, he simply watched the newly reinstated military man remove his jacket with a faint expression of intrigue, flinching as it hit the ground beside him, and causing the Lieutenant Colonel to give a cruel laugh.

"We have a deal, kid," he said simply, unfastening his belt with several metallic _clinks_ that caused the child to flinch again. "Looks like we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

He raised both of his hands, ensuring that Edward had a clear view of the transmutation circles upon them, and he allowed his gaze to fall to the ground beside him once again, in silent understanding of the unspoken threat. His eyelids flickered to an almost closed position as he forced himself to draw deep, slow breaths in some attempt at preparation, and his insides writhed as he caught the distinct, now familiar sound of a variety of clothing articles hitting the floor.

With another, sharp kick he was forced onto his front, grimacing as his recently sustained bruised, and broken ribs, courtesy of a certain Frank Archer, made contact with the uneven concrete. All too used to this treatment, he did not even react as he felt a pair of hands at his hips, reaching around to raise the lower half of his body, and unfasten his belt with ease that implied he had done this a thousand times before. His leather pants were dragged slowly down his thighs and thrown to the ground, before his boxers quickly met the same fate beside them. He tightly closed his eyes, his breathing hitching very slightly in his throat.

What could only have been minutes seemed like an eternity, though Edward did not make a single sound. His bleeding fingertips where nails had once resided clutched frantically at the ground, and his bottom lip had split open, filling his mouth with the unpleasant coppery taste of blood, but still he held his silence. His body completely limp, he did not even move when Kimbley decided he was satisfied, and got to his feet, a smirk upon his lips, and breathing ragged enough to quickly induce nausea.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Edward could not even blink as his dull mind registered the familiar voice from somewhere in the direction he vaguely recalled to contain the mouth of the alleyway, and out of the corner of his blurred, bloodshot eye he saw Kimbley turn towards the voice, that loathsome smirk broadening as he deciphered the identity of the person who had caught him.

"You were right," he said. "The kid's almost _too_ easy."

With that, the two companions swiftly left the child to succumb to the violent shaking of his own tortured body, that smirk upon Kimbley's lips never once faltering. Only when the footsteps had long since died did he draw his aching limbs closer, his arms wrapping themselves around his knees, and he whimpered, gasping for breath that refused to be drawn into his protesting lungs. The tears stung his eyes as he fought for oxygen, though as the seconds passed, his panic only increased, and his already limited supply of the precious gas diminished rapidly.

The brick walls that surrounded him seemed to be closing in, suffocating him, and he whimpered once again, still frantically attempting to draw breath. Just as he was certain he could survive no longer, that his own body had failed him yet again, and given both Kimbley and Archer the satisfaction of breaking him, his eyes flickered closed, and he fell completely limp, pray now only to the demons that haunted him within the depths of his own mind.

This was the first time he had slept in months, and even unconscious, he knew he could not escape.

--

Edward awoke as suddenly and sharply as though somebody had been shaking him, and despite how he was struggling to focus his eyes, he knew perfectly well that he was not alone. His position had not altered since Kimbley had cast him aside like some useless piece of trash, which meant that he was gazing blankly at a patch of blurred concrete and despite his best efforts at remaining stationary, the familiar twinges of pain in the lower half of his body were still present, earning a small grimace.

"Edward."

After several moments of careful deliberation, he realized he recognized the soft voice from somewhere to his left, though it did not belong to either of his captors. Curious in a strange, almost masochistic sense, he managed to rest the entirety of his weight on his automail arm, and draw his limbs into something that vaguely resembled an upright position. Breathing harshly, he tilted his head.

Sitting, cross-legged beside him was a tall, dark-haired figure, coal colored eyes narrowed in thought, and lips twisted into a crooked smile that could only be invoked from the usually stoic Lieutenant Colonel following an encounter with a vast amount of alcohol. Their gazes met: hollow amber colliding with unguarded onyx, and the smile faded, eyes suddenly reflecting concern.

"You were crying," his voice was barely a whisper. "In your sleep."

Instantly, Edward reached up with his right hand and brushed away any tears that might have dared betray his portrayal of indifference, flinching as the harsh metal grazed his already injured cheek. Sighing, he dropped his hand, his gaze firmly fixed upon the ground between himself and the Colonel.

"No I wasn't," he muttered, though he knew his denial was pointless. "What are you doing here?"

Acting as though he hadn't spoken, or perhaps he simply had not heard him, Roy allowed his eyes to pass over the child's tear-stained cheeks, and bruised hips. "Why are _you _here?" he asked. "And what're your pants doing over there?"

He pointed towards them, and Edward turned in the direction of where he was gesturing, spotting both his leather pants, and boxers crumpled in a heap where Kimbley had left them. He glanced up at Roy once again, too aware of his immeasurable exhaustion to allow any humiliation to take it's place. The obvious caring in his eyes stunned him, though he did not voice it.

"What does it matter?" he murmured softly. "You're drunk. You won't remember this tomorrow."

Reaching out, Roy gently rested his hand upon Edward's flesh one, surprised when he did not flinch, or attempt to banish the contact. "You're hurt."

"You're still drunk." he retorted coldly.

He sighed impatiently, too used to the child's attempt at defiance, though unable to decipher why, of all times, he had decided to affect it now. "Let me help you, Edward," he whispered. "Tell me who did this to you."

"I think you should go home," Edward replied monotonously. "You know how you get when you've had too much Scotch. At least, _I_ still remember you dropping an alleyway on my-"

He cut himself off sharply as Roy raised a hand as though about to strike him, and he tightly closed his eyes in preparation of the attack that never came. Coming to his senses a split-second before it was too late, he allowed his hand to fall to the ground once again, and he silently cursed himself for even considering harming the boy, when it was more than obvious he was injured enough already.

He sighed heavily. "C'mon. Let's get you out of here."

Immediately, Edward's eyelids flickered open, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I'm just fine here."

"I don't care," Roy replied, with his usual tone of arrogance. "Put your clothes on, and come with me. _Now_."

The unspoken "_Or else." _was perfectly evident to them both as Edward, recognizing the tone that Frank so often employed when in his presence, gave the tiniest of winces, and rested both his flesh, and metal hands upon the ground, using them to wrench his shivering body to his unsteady feet. Roy noticed he was favoring the automail limb as he stood, since it was more capable of holding his weight, and he could not bring himself to respectfully alter his gaze as the child stooped down to retrieve his clothing, revealing another series of bruises, and scratches upon his lower back that seemed to be from a set of fingernails.

He was clearly pained by the slightest movement, judging by the grimace, and sharp exhale of breath as he stepped into his attire, and Roy's eyes softened at the sight. He did not understand how someone could inflict such agony upon a creature of incomparable beauty, and feel not even a trace of remorse. He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles cracked. He may have harmed the child against his better judgment, but he loathed himself for it, even with the drink that was supposed to wash away his sins. The person who had done this to Edward, tortured him, created such fear in someone so strong, did not deserve his life.

Edward turned to face him once he was clothed, both hands shoved into his pockets, and eyes fixed upon the ground. Roy knew immediately that he was forcing any emotion from his eyes, refusing to allow himself to respond to whatever he was to do to him, just as he insisted upon doing with the man who tortured him so. Sympathy and desire to bring back the Edward Elric he had once known overrode any sense of reason, and he quickly closed the gap between himself and the child, removing his navy military jacket as he did so. Upon reaching him, he draped it over his shoulders, and slipped an arm around him to assist his uneven gait.

"Can you walk?" he asked softly.

"I don't need your help." the child replied coldly, though when he did not push him away, Roy understood that he accepted, and appreciated the contact that differed so greatly from what he usually received.

The journey that usually only lasted five minutes, even in the various states of intoxication that Roy often found himself succumbing to at this time, took almost twice as long in Edward's company, since his legs were shaking too violently to be of much use to him. For the first time in living memory, Roy did not feel even the slightest sense of impatience as he assisted the child to his place of residence. Instead he merely smiled fondly, if slightly lopsidedly, down at him, though quickly averted his gaze as Edward looked up at him, for reasons he was not sure even he understood.

Fumbling for the set of keys he was certain he kept on his person at all times, Roy managed to unlock the door, and support his companion until they reached the couch, where he collapsed rather ungracefully, pulling the jacket closer around his still violently shivering shoulders. His eyes flickered to a close immediately, though Roy understood that it would be several hours before he felt secure enough to fall into a fitful slumber, if he managed to do so at all. Clearly the child had endured more than he realized, but he was not about to request he relive it. Not now.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked softly. "For the pain?"

"I'm fine," Edward replied, though his voice was strained. "Just...just go. Please."

Nodding, Roy swiftly left the room, and crossed the hallway to ease open his bedroom door, certain that if Frank was not on the couch with his nose in one of his Alchemy books, as he often seemed to do these days, he would have retired to bed. He raised his eyebrows in confusion as he realized the bed had not been slept in. Massaging his forehead, he decided to think nothing of it. He took plenty of midnight strolls, coupled with several detours to the local bars on a regular basis, after all. What was to suggest Frank would not feel inclined to do the same?

Turning on his heel, he silently made his way into the kitchen, and set about pouring himself a glass of Scotch, grimacing as he noticed the bottle he had been drinking from earlier had been emptied, and was now sitting atop the overflowing trash can, glimmering faintly in the light. If he was going to keep a close watch on Edward, he needed to stay awake. He knew of only one way to do that.

He was unsure of how much time had elapsed before he caught the faint sound of a whimper coming from the living room. He was dimly aware that he had consumed three glasses of Scotch in that space of time, or was it four? Either way, that wasn't much of an indication, since he often alternated between drinking quickly and slowly, to prevent himself from disconnecting completely from his surroundings until he was absolutely certain it was what he wanted.

Sighing, he abandoned his latest glass, and got to his feet, struggling to make out where the doorway between the kitchen and the living room was. Eventually locating it, he made his way across the room, and into the next, where he immediately caught sight of Edward, his eyes tightly closed, teeth grit, and the occasional piteous moan escaping his slightly parted lips.

"No," he whimpered, a single tear falling from his eye. "Please, I...I'm s-sorry, I didn't...please..."

Suddenly aware that he could not tear his gaze from the writhing child upon his couch, Roy steadied himself with one hand against the door frame. He had seen this vulnerability that he often forgot existed on precious few occasions, and only now did he understand. There was something addictive in that terror, something that drew him in and refused to allow him to leave. Something that, abandoning any sense of morality that he had possessed what was perhaps only minutes ago, he had to have.

With a gasp, Edward's eyelids snapped open, and he stared blankly up at the ceiling, his flesh hand resting on his chest, directly above his thudding heart, and tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Biting them back, he turned his head, and started upon catching sight of Roy standing in the doorway, his onyx eyes still fixed upon him. He swallowed hard as he recognized the expression of faint intrigue, almost amusement, with a certain longing behind it that caused his heart to pound again.

"Roy?"

Smiling comfortingly, Roy walked towards him and took a seat at the very edge of the couch, silently marveling at how perfect his name sounded coming from those bruised lips. Edward's body had gone completely rigid as he gazed up at the taller figure, his eyes wide and unblinking. Roy wasn't even certain that he was breathing. Reaching down, he gently rested a hand upon his cheek, and he flinched.

"Wh...what're you-"

"Shh," he whispered. "You were dreaming, that's all. Just a bad dream."

He troubled to keep the stability of his voice, ensuring that no words were slurred or incoherent. The small, crooked smile never once left his lips, though Edward's suspicion remained. He knew this game. He wished to God, or whatever it was he prayed to that he didn't, but he did. It could so easily have been Frank smiling down at him. That tone of voice was horrifically familiar; the barely contained lust in his eyes was identical to what he had seen staring down at him every night for the past six months. This was just like all the other times, with only one, vital difference:

He was going to break.

"He's a lucky man, whoever he is," Roy was murmuring now, his fingers delicately tracing the child's cheek and jaw bone. "There are plenty of people in this world who'd do anything, _anything_ to have someone like you."

Pausing for a moment, presumably to draw his courage, Edward managed to choke out, "Are...are you one of them, Roy?"

"I am," he admitted, without shame. "I had you once, Edward, and I let you go. You remember, don't you?"

_Of course I remember,_ he wanted to scream, though of course the words did not manage to reach his mouth. Instead, he merely dropped his gaze, recalling perfectly how he had found himself pressed against the wall, Roy's lips upon his, barely moments before he had pushed him aside, refused him, and been forced to accept the consequences. He gave the tiniest incline of his head, which Roy seemed to accept as confirmation.

He smiled. "I won't make that mistake again. I promise."

Edward had to fight back the sudden urge to give a bitter smile. He had no reason to doubt that Roy would make up for the lost opportunity six months ago, especially when he moved closer, his grip upon the child's jaw tightening more than he was aware. He barely had a chance to grit his teeth, forcing his usual indifference, before a pair of lips crashed against his own, and hands grasped his shoulders, preventing even the slightest of movements.

With the familiar, though now torn and dirt-covered, scarlet coat tossed aside, black shirt, leather pants, and boxers shortly accompanying it, Roy gazed down at the child that had fascinated him from the moment he had first laid eyes upon him, seeing the full extent of what had been inflicted upon him for the first time. His frail, pallid body was covered in bruises of varying stages of healing, coupled with deep gashes and scars that seemed to be from some type of blade. As his fingers softly caressed each of these memories, these keepsakes, Edward could not help but smile.

"Go ahead," he murmured, eyes lightly closed. "There's nothing more you can do."

Roy tutted, gaze flickering towards his tear-stained cheeks. "Edward," he sighed. "If you're going to pretend like you don't care, don't fall asleep."

The boy's surprise was evident as those amber eyes flickered open once again for the merest second, and Roy smiled upon catching a hint of that vulnerability that he attempted so furiously to keep locked away deep inside of himself. Leaning forward, a hand cupping his bruised cheek, Roy pressed a soft, chaste kiss to his lips, and was not surprised to feel him flinch beneath him. For a moment, he felt something, something that perhaps resembled guilt, and a tiny voice in the very depths of his mind whispered, "_What are you doing now, Mustang? Can't you see he's hurt enough already without you?_" though it faltered, its protests silenced as he pulled back, and met those hypnotizing eyes once again.

Aware only of the tired, defeated expression as Edward gazed up at him, and completely oblivious to his own movements, he clumsily tore off his attire with shaking fingers, where they hit the floor alongside Edward's, and the military jacket that had been discarded at some point during the child's nightmare. Dropping his hands to grip the shoulders that ached to escape their prison of flesh, he straddled his waist, and crashed his lips to his once again, though this time he did not react. He simply closed his eyes, relishing the comforting notion that within minutes, this routine would be over, and he would finally be left alone to pick up the pieces.

"Look at me."

He spoke softly as he slipped his hands behind Edward's knees and parted his legs, which were in a similar fragile and bruised state to the rest of his body, though the order was undeniable. The child swallowed hard before complying, and when he forced his eyelids apart, Roy immediately saw the fear that he was doing his utmost to disguise, and the tears that longed to fall. Without any regard whatsoever to the child's current injuries, and completely unable to control his desires, Roy raised his body, and roughly entered him.

Edward cried out, despite how he attempted to force his usual stoic demeanor, and he tightly closed his eyes, biting down on his bottom lip to prevent the tears from cascading down his pallid cheeks. As the pain intensified with each passing minute, he couldn't help but whimper pitifully, agony and disgust increasing as he caught the faint gasps and moans of the man he had sacrificed everything to protect.

He found himself slipping out of consciousness several times, overcome with pain he never should have had to endure. Aware only of his vision blurring, and the walls seemingly attempting to crush him, Roy collapsing upon him with another loud gasp, desperately trying to catch his breath, passed unnoticed. What he did feel, though would later surmise that it was a mere hallucination, was a pair of arms wrapping themselves around his waist, and several tears falling to the bare, bruised skin of his chest.

"Edward," came a choked whisper. "I...I'm s-...I'm sorry..."

Attempting a smile, though it appeared as more of a grimace, Edward could manage only two words before he finally passed out, and did not awaken. "I know."

--

Returning to consciousness with a gasp, Roy sat bolt upright, and immediately regretted it as his stomach revolted, and his head began to pound. Tightly closing his eyes in protest of the vicious sunlight that flickered through the curtains on the opposite wall, he remained perfectly stationary for several moments, until the headache retreated enough allow the cold light of morning to penetrate his bloodshot eyes.

He knew, without thinking, that something was wrong. He seemed to be sitting on the floor, though he had no recollection of how he had gotten there, and his skin prickling uncomfortably implied that his clothing was not present. Deciding that his best hope of banishing the familiar ache was to stagger into the kitchen and pray that he had not yet drained his entire liquor cabinet, he sighed and stumbled to his unsteady feet, clutching at the couch beside him for support.

Slowly opening his eyes, his entire body froze as he realized he was standing directly opposite a half-dressed blond, who was determinedly staring at the carpet, and wrenching on a pair of tight leather pants with some difficulty. Roy simply stared at him, his eyes narrowed in thought, but despite how frantically he wracked the four corners of his mind, he could conjure nothing as to what had happened to earn the company of the blond.

Pulling his scarlet trench coat over his shaking shoulders, Edward looked up at him for the first time. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "About what happened. You were drunk, and I..."

Bewildered, Roy furrowed his brow. "What're you talking about, Edward?"

"Forget it," he shook his head, as though in desperation. "Just forget it."

Without another word, Edward turned swiftly on his heel and swept from the house, a limp in his step that the Colonel could hardly fail to notice. Confused by the abrupt departure, and the child's presence there in the first place, he collapsed to the couch, raking his fingers anxiously through his hair as the headache returned with a vengeance. The child had lied to him, he knew that, he had sensed it in the dismissive tone he had adopted when he spoke. The question was why: Why would he want him to believe he -Edward- had taken advantage of _him_?

Sighing, he got to his feet once again, and headed towards the bathroom, deciding to ignore how his legs were protesting his weight, and shaking dangerously beneath him. Stepping into the shower moments later, and feeling the comforting flow of water ease his aching muscles and mind, he dismissed whatever uncomfortable notions were plaguing him, regarding exactly what had happened last night. Sooner or later, it would come to him. Perhaps in the dead of night as his insomnia reared its ugly head, or even as he sipped the disgusting coffee that Central Headquarters had to offer, ignoring yet another momentous stack of paperwork.

Biting down on his bottom lip, he closed his eyes. He had never known Edward's voice so empty before, or his normally defiant amber eyes so hollow. Whatever happened, whatever _he_ had done, he wasn't certain he wanted to know, after all.


	11. Dawning

**Fun Fact: **I have a new haircut that I don't like.

**Sincerest Apologies From The Procrastinating Jackass: **I know, I know. A thousand and one years since I last updated this, but I've finally got my Plot Bunnies into gear with this story, and I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy and motivated! Yaaaay!

**Disclaimer: **Arakawa-sensei still owns Fullmetal Alchemist. Since I am not Arakawa-sensei, that would mean I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist. On the plus side, I do own this really, really cool pair of pants that attach to my wrists via chains. They do make it difficult to go to the bathroom but, y'know, can't have everything.

* * *

Edward tried not to think as he slowly made his way back to the warehouse that had housed him for longer than he wished to recall. His steps were small, his back hunched as he attempted to cause his aching and bruised body as little pain as possible, though he had deciphered it useless within seconds as the sharp twinges in the lower half of his body became slightly more than that, and he had to fight the urge to allow himself to collapse ungracefully to his knees.

He noticed several confused stares from passers-by as they caught sight of his multiple injuries and stained clothing, but rather than giving them an opportunity to question him, he simply hung his head to stare firmly at the sidewalk, and quickened his pace to more than he knew his injuries could withstand. He was pallid and shaking when he eventually found himself on the outskirts of town, and he raised his flesh hand to wipe the thin sheen of sweat that he formed on his forehead. His consciousness would not last much longer.

Drawing the remainder of his strength, he slammed his shoulder against the door that hung limply from its hinges, and staggered into the room beyond, managing with some difficulty to remain upright, despite how his vision was becoming blurred, and darkening towards the edges. He caught that distinct, cruel laugh from the adjoining room, the one that caused the entirety of his body to tense, and had to force back a panicked whimper as he realized his weakness would have to be contained, yet again. It wasn't out of pride, God, he wished it was, rather because every single weakness he possessed, Frank Archer took great pleasure in exploiting it, intensifying it, and Edward knew he wouldn't be able to hold his silence. Not today.

"Edward?" came the taunting voice he did not even have enough energy to loathe. "Where the Hell have you been? Get in here."

Gritting his teeth, Edward straightened up, doing his utmost to ignore the sharp twinge of pain it caused him, and exhaled slowly as though in preparation of whatever he would have to endure this time. He forced back the agony and sorrow that ached to make itself known, ensuring his expression was that well-practiced indifference he had become more than proficient at feigning, and walked into the room despite everything within him that was telling him to run.

He stared at his boots the entire walk, recalling a night several weeks ago when Frank had been in a particularly foul mood, and Edward had found himself crumpled and bruised upon the cold, stone floor for so much as meeting his gaze, and came to a halt several feet from the couch where he knew him to be seated. Even with his hollow eyes fixed determinedly upon the ground, he could still feel that malicious smirk burning into him, and he flinched beneath the weight of it.

"Edward," he said sharply. "We have a guest."

The Edward of several months ago would have seen that as a perfect opportunity to snarl, "You have friends?"in response, complete with a smirk eerily reminiscent of the affectionately known Colonel Bastard. The current Edward missed him. He wanted him to come back, so he didn't have to be the one to glance up, almost deliberately slowly, and reveal the vicious purple bruises upon his face to this stranger. He was more intelligent than that, apparently, because he had locked himself away, deep in the confines of his own mind, and allowed this timid, docile creature to take his place. Were it not for fear of losing his fragile amount of remaining sanity, Edward would have cursed him.

Sensing the unspoken command however, he simply mumbled, "S'a pleasure." and turned so as to inspect this honored guest of his tormentor's. Were his exhaustion any less, he might have reacted. However, his energy was being rapidly drained by the exertion of standing, so he only managed to stare blankly into the mocking eyes of Zolf Kimbley, who was reclining in the moth-eaten chair with a certain air of pride that made the young blond nauseous.

"You've certainly got him tame." he observed approvingly. "He won't even look at you."

Frank gave an arrogant smirk, before raising a hand, and flicking his index finger towards the ceiling. Kimbley arched a brow at the gesture, which was barely noticeable unless one had been watching him, and his confused expression intensified as the young blond flinched as though he had struck him, and instantly moved across the room to take a seat at the edge of the couch, his head hung ashamedly.

"He will if I tell him to," he said softly, grasping a handful of his long, blond hair, and tilting his head back sharply, forcing their gazes to meet. An unnatural compassion in his eyes, he gently stroked his cheek with his other hand, causing his eyes to flicker closed. "A little unresponsive..." he turned back to Kimbley with a shrug. "But you can't have everything."

Kimbley laughed lightly, his eyebrows raised. "So what'd you do?" at Frank's questioning expression, he continued, "I'm guessing he isn't here by choice."

Edward's eyes widened, and he held Frank's gaze, frantically shaking his head as though in denial of the Crimson Alchemist's words. Frank smiled gently, though both other occupants of the room caught the unspoken threat that was almost completely disguised within it. In response, the blond dropped his gaze as much as Frank's grasp would allow, and allowed a sigh to silently pass his lips. This, like everything else, was out of his control.

"He came to me," Frank said simply, turning once again to the man sitting across from him, the faintest of smirks playing about his lips. "Kid's a bit of a masochist. But I guess you found that out for yourself."

"Calm, docile," Kimbley agreed, with a small nod. "But not exactly of much use to you, is he?"

Two pairs of eyes focused upon him, and the difference between them was stunning. The pair belonging to the elder man were crystal, a light blue that could almost be an unnerving white color. They were cold, impassive, with the faintest hint of intrigue. The blond's were that familiar amber hue, burning with a terror he did not even attempt to hide, and flickering nervously between the two men. Kimbley couldn't help it. He had to laugh.

"Oh?" Frank raised an eyebrow. "You have an idea?"

Reaching for the glass on the upturned box beside the chair he was sitting on, Kimbley took a sip, surveying the two over the rim of it, and with a cruel smirk, sealed the blond's fate. "I have an idea."

--

Roy had been half-heartedly attacking his Cornflakes for almost an hour now, and was becoming increasingly irritated with the whole situation. His morning routine did not usually involve the assassination of his breakfast food, you understand. Matter of fact, the only thing he normally had the energy for at such an hour was coffee, and a quick examination of every single cupboard in his small kitchen had informed him that he had exhausted his caffeine supply with his chronic insomnia. That could explain why he was in such a foul mood this particular morning.

He grunted quietly, and threw down his spoon in disgust. Those pathetic little flakes wouldn't even react any more. They simply yielded beneath the spoon, as though exhausted with the constant beating. Roy stiffened slightly, before falling back in his chair, and covering his face with both of his hands. This was ridiculous. When the day came that a bowl of soggy Cornflakes could remind him of Edward, he would have officially lost his mind.

He caught the familiar sound of jingling keys, a moment before the door opened and a voice called, "Are you awake? I've got coffee!" He peered between his splayed fingers, his brain only managing to register the word "coffee", and as Frank entered the room, swinging a plastic bag from his index finger, he grinned at his companion's wide eyes, and hopeful expression. Rifling inside the bag, he handed the jar of coffee to him, which he stared at for a moment, as though unable to comprehend what it contained.

Frank shook his head in desperation. "You are the worst morning person I have ever met."

"Sh'tup," he responded dully, dropping his hands to the table. "Can' sleep. Paperwork..."

"Paperwork?" the less exhausted figure arched an eyebrow, and turned to the set of cupboards on the opposite wall. He pulled down a mug from one of them, and proceeded to heat the kettle atop the cooker. "Roy, you would never lose your precious sleep over a bunch of papers," he turned around once again, and folded his arms across his chest. "What's _really_ bothering you? Edward again?"

Silently cursing his transparency, Roy nodded slowly, and gave a small yawn. "I saw him, Frank. 'Bout two weeks ago."

"Yeah?" he failed to notice the cold glint in the other man's eyes, or how he averted his gaze in order to disguise it. "How's he taking his discharge?"

Roy groaned. "I don't know. I don't remember. I just woke up and he was there and...he told me he was sorry...like he wanted me to think he'd taken advantage of me..." he bit down hard on his lower lip. "But...he was lying."

"I'm sure he had his reasons," Frank replied, without the faintest trace of emotion. Even the Colonel caught that, and he stared at him blankly as he stirred the coffee into his mug. "Or maybe he was telling the truth."

"No," Roy firmly shook his head. "No. He's a bad liar. I think...someone's been hurting him," he hesitated, having finally spoken what had been plaguing him since their meeting. "And he hasn't been fighting back."

He blinked sharply, as there came a sudden noise from Frank's direction that almost sounded as though he had slammed his fist down on the counter. The mug he had been pouring sugar into a moment ago jumped very slightly to the right, and teetered dangerously as it did so, seeming to contemplate whether or not to torture the sleep-deprived man by falling to the ground. Frank whipped around, and there was a certain fire flickering behind his eyes that led Roy to the conclusion that he actually _had_ attacked the counter. The question was why?

His expression didn't alter in the slightest as he crossed the small room, and his hand shot out to grasp Roy's jaw, turning it sharply and forcing their eyes to meet. He stooped down, and crashed his lips to his without any compassion, or regard to the other man's confusion at the gesture. No, as he forced his tongue into his mouth, there was nothing present but a battle for dominance, a wordless command that the Colonel was to shut his mouth.

Before Roy could respond (though, he wasn't certain what he was going to do anyway) Frank pulled away once again, and had turned back to the coffee he was preparing without giving Roy a chance to identify his expression. The onyx-eyed Colonel stared, bewildered at the man's back, all too aware that it was not him he was seeing. In his mind, there was nothing but a kiss eerily familiar to the one had had just endured, and it was a small blond relenting, a haunting look in his eyes that made his stomach churn.

"You should think about showering," Frank said, almost coldly. "You're due at HQ in less than an hour, and Riza gave you a whole new stack of paperwork yesterday."

He placed the mug of steaming coffee on the table in front of the Colonel, and watched him, almost expectantly. Roy didn't seem to have noticed the motion, as he simply stared at his companion, his brow furrowed, and something in his eyes that perhaps resembled disgust. Frank made to question, but without a word, Roy got to his feet so rapidly that his chair fell over backwards in his haste, and stormed out of the room, leaving behind a silence that was more than uncomfortable.

Edward Elric was a lot of things. A stubborn, arrogant little brat, most definitely, but Roy had always considered him to be truthful, especially to him. Up until his discharge, (_Until you dropped an alleyway on him_, his conscience interjected smoothly) there had even been a mutual respect between them that almost bordered on friendship. As Roy stepped into the scalding shower, his flesh turning scarlet in an instant, he realized two things. He was a sick, depraved drunkard, and Edward was a liar.


	12. Dog Of The Military

Me again! And hey, it only took a month and a bit!

So, uh...I know you're out there 'cause I'm creepy and I look at the Reader Traffic thing, and yet I only get a couple reviews per chapter? That's mean, guys. And I'm not begging or anything, but if you like it, or if you don't...Hell, I don't mind, drop me a line, 'kay? It makes me feel special. Tell me what your favorite color of socks are if you really want, I like socks too. Okie? Okie. Story now!

Okay, I lied.

**Disclaimer: **Arakawa-sensei still owns Fullmetal Alchemist, and I don't. I don't even speak Japanese, man, much as I'd _love_ to. I do have "Japanese For Dummies" though.

Now story!

* * *

Roy suppressed a yawn with some difficulty, raking an awkward hand through his hair, and shifting his hips uncomfortably against the filing cabinet he was sitting atop, deciding in that instant that he would much rather his ancient rickety desk than this torture. He hadn't thought _anything_ could damage his rear more than that thing, but, he supposed, he had just been proved wrong by the A - F cabinet of the "Restricted Access" filing room.

That golden plate on the door forbidding his entry was exactly the reason why he was sitting on a cabinet in the dark in the first place, the paper he was reading illuminated only by the faint light from a streetlamp, and a second cabinet, this one being of the G - N category, barricading the door. It had been 2:15am the last time he had checked a clock; as he swept from his empty office, his stubborn mind working in overdrive, but unfortunately, only where a certain blond alchemist was concerned and completely unable to register the teetering pile of paperwork Riza had given him earlier that day. He had no idea what the time was now, and frankly, he didn't give a damn.

He turned a page of the thick manila folder marked, "Elric, E." and narrowed his eyes in concentration. The date was some time in 1912, according to the teenager's scrawled attempt at a handwritten report, and a quick mental calculation on Mustang's part confirmed that it had been written shortly after he had joined the ranks of the State Alchemists. Unfortunately for him, it was nigh impossible to read, particularly in the dark, and all his ill-adjusted eyes could manage were the words, "Lieutenant Colonel Frank Archer."

His insides writhed uncomfortably as he turned the page, and examined another report written several months later, this one addressed to him and concerning the coal mine at Youswell. He remembered this one well, which was a stroke of luck since he wasn't really reading it anyway. Frank's outburst earlier that morning had woken his suspicions, and though he tried to convince himself that it was only old paranoia, seeing his name like that in a report he had known nothing about conjured a thousand and one more questions. The sharp slash of pain in his head told him a migraine was imminent.

He skimmed through the pages, heart sinking further each time he saw his name, written in increasingly illegible handwriting; sometimes on train timetables or accompanied by spots of blood that could very well have been from his own wrist even as he was writing. He couldn't help but notice that the reports he, himself had ordered Edward to write were always immaculate, perfectly regulation, even as his handwriting became slightly shaky towards the end.

He reached the final report, and winced. It was the worst of all of them, looking as though it had been crumpled and thrown against a wall a hundred times, before it was unfolded and continued by someone on the brink of desperation. He squinted, determined to decipher whatever it was he had written, and it was only after reaching the signature towards the bottom that he realized he was holding his breath, headache colliding brutally with his skull.

_"October 3, 1916,_"

Roy flinched. It couldn't have been written more than a week before he had found him down that alleyway: the exact date engraved in his pocket watch only five years later.

"_Inspection of the Outer Central warehouses for Lieutenant Colonel Frank Archer. Search of each individual warehouse revealed nothing of interest. All of them are completely empty, except for a dog in the one closest to the outskirts._"

The closer he moved the paper to his nose, the more Roy noticed that the word "Dog" had been traced several times in the blunt pencil he was using, almost as though for emphasis. He shrugged it off, or at least tried to. It wasn't as though he had really been paying attention to what he was writing, after all. He had probably done it unconsciously. But then, another, skeptical part of his brain started up, if he was in such a hurry, if he cared so little, why would he take the time to make the word "Dog" stand out so much?

"Damnit, Ed," he hissed quietly to himself. "What are you trying to tell me?"

Conceding his defeat, Roy uncurled his legs and jumped down from the cabinet, his booted feet surprisingly light against the tiles of the floor. Jolted by the sudden movement, his watch leaped from its pocket, and hung limply at his thigh, swinging absently as the silver chain caught the sliver of light from the window behind him, and flickered against his dark eyes. He smiled faintly to himself as he took it in a gloved hand and gazed at it for a moment, before shoving it unceremoniously back into his pocket. God, he hated that thing. All it did was remind him that he was a-

He froze. Dog. _Dog of the Military_.

Edward.

Throwing the folder back into its respective cabinet and kicking it to a close, Roy raced for the door, silently calculating where the warehouses were from Central Command, and exactly how long it would take him to get there, his heart pounding beneath his ribcage. He threw his shoulder against the second cabinet and was shoving it aside with a protesting screech of metal against tile when he caught the sound of voices from outside.

"...Up, kiddo. No one's gonna want you if you're looking miserable," that voice sounded gleeful, and maliciously familiar. He was obviously smirking. "Or is that your plan? He won't like that."

Whoever he was speaking to was silent, but words were unnecessary. Roy would recognize those uneven footsteps; the dull _thunk_ of a metal appendage hitting the floor anywhere. He pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear whatever was being said, and growing more pallid by the second as the other man continued to speak.

"Not talking today, Shrimp?" he mocked. "Or don't you dare unless Frank's ordering you?"

"Sh..." Roy's heart leaped into his throat as Edward finally spoke. His voice was weak, hoarse, but the words were there. "Shut up."

Whoever was with him gave a harsh laugh. "Don't sound _too_enthusiastic, now. You're pathetic, y'know that? You don't even try to pretend that you're not. You just let everyone see you for what you are," he seemed to be examining him for a moment, and when he spoke again, there was obvious relish in his tone. "You're not even worth making into a little pretty bomb."

Roy tensed, his hand gripping the door handle. Kimbley.

"Lucky me." Edward responded dully.

The elder man smirked again. "And what about Mustang?"

Edward stopped dead in his tracks, and Roy clearly heard the scuffle from the other side of the door as Kimbley grabbed him by his elbow, and dragged him forwards. For a moment it sounded as though the teenager was fighting back, digging his heels into the floor, but a second later he had returned to his normal pace, head bowed in ever present subservience.

"Wh...what about him?"

"You let him take you too, didn't you?" Kimbley taunted. "You know what? I think you like it, Shrimp. You pretend you don't with that God-awful miserable look you've always got about you, but you could stop it any time you wanted. And yet, you still go back there and let him fuck you. And now you're letting him sell you off too," he shook his head in desperation. "People like you make me si-"

Roy started, jumping almost a foot in the air as there came a colossal _crash_ of something metal colliding with something that obviously wasn't, and a body hitting the ground with such force that whoever it was must have broken a few bones. His eyes wide, he threw open the door and raced out into the corridor, perfectly aware of several other doors opening, and their occupants peering out with bewildered expressions.

The actual scene had rounded the corner, he surmised quickly, and he ran towards the sick, _thunk_ noises that reminded him of smashing his head against a wall. No sooner had he caught sight of Edward, his eyes blazing with vicious rage did he look up, and realize there was an enormous suit of armor running towards him with a series of _clanks_. Roy was certain that if the younger Elric was capable of expression, he would've looked exactly as confused as the rest of them.

"Brother!!"

Edward ignored him. That, or he actually couldn't hear him over the sound of his prosthetic fist colliding repeatedly with the face of Zolf Kimbley, who was almost unidentifiable beneath the blood that coated him. The coppery scent hit the back of Roy's throat, conjuring an unwelcome image of the Ishbalan battlefield and causing him to retch, though he forced it aside with some difficulty. Much as he was certain Kimbley deserved what he was getting, he couldn't stand by and watch Edward kill him.

"Ed!" he shouted, hoping to connect with him. "Edward!"

He wasn't expecting a response. If even his brother was unable to communicate, Roy definitely wouldn't be able to, and would have to resort to more primal tactics: like tackling him to the floor, for instance. He watched the teenager's movements with scrutinizing eyes, waiting for a chance to catch him off guard, but before he could make so much as a single move, Alphonse had stepped forward.

He wrapped his metal arms around his brother's small form in a movement so swift he didn't even have a chance at retaliation, and lifted him from his feet, despite his screams of protest. He writhed in indignation for a moment, before he slowly cracked open his eyelids, revealing the golden eyes that were so familiar, and his gaze fell to the unmoving form of the man he had just viciously beaten.

Roy saw it coming a split-second before it did. His body fell limp in his brother's arms, and he slipped to his knees, eyes becoming molten with tears that threatened to fall from them. Without even thinking, Roy found himself collapsing beside him, wrapping his arms around his pitifully thin body and holding him close as he cried for the first time in months; wracking sobs that shook his entire body with their intensity.

He looked up, meeting Alphonse's gaze, and smiled sympathetically at the horror in his eyes: a smile that was obviously feigned, though the suit of armor did not speak. He averted his gaze once again to Edward, who had curled up against his chest, hands balled into fists and clutching at his shirt as though he would never let go, and he absently brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead. There was nothing he could say, so like Alphonse, he held his tongue.

Barely a minute had passed before General Hakuro appeared around the same corner that Roy had taken, flanked by two enormous soldiers who could have been his bodyguards. Roy looked up at him as he surveyed the situation with disgust, eyes silently begging for him to see what, so far only Roy had. Hakuro drew in the sight of a badly mutilated Kimbley, cold eyes turning to Edward's blood-stained fists and clothing, before he glanced up at Roy.

His expression turned sour. "Get Fullmetal out of here. Now."

His two bodyguards jumped to attention, and immediately marched over to where Roy and Edward were still curled up upon the floor. The manner in which they wrenched the blond from his arms and forced him to stand on his unsteady feet told him immediately that they weren't about to have a chat over tea and cakes. They each grabbed an arm, taking care to apply extra pressure to the automail limb, and steered him away, leaving a bewildered and guilt-stricken Roy in their wake.

He turned. "General-"

"Silence, Mustang," he snapped back. "Fullmetal will tell us everything we need to know."

"But, Sir-"

He held up a hand, and Roy flinched back as though he had struck him. "Assault on a military officer is a serious offense. I'm sure you're aware of that."

Roy hung his head. Satisfied, Hakuro signalled to some other of his flunkies to take whatever was left of Kimbley to the Infirmary, and set off down the corridor after his bodyguards, leaving Roy still crumpled upon the floor. It was only when he was certain that he was alone that he finally looked up, his fists tightly clenched at his sides. No doubt Hakuro's idea of "questioning" was close to torture, and to appease him, Edward would sign his death warrant over something that was the fault of the corrupt military in the first place.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to get to his feet, onyx eyes glimmering with rage. No. Tonight, he was going to make it stop. Tonight, he was going to earn Edward's sacrifice.


	13. The Final Conflict

Don't be fooled by the chapter title, folks. This marks the end of what I'd like to call Part One, because it marks a sort of turning point. Eh...you'll see when you get there. I really thought this was longer when I was writing it, but maybe that's only because it took all day.

**Warning: **Spoilers for the end of the series.

**Disclaimer: **This was done whilst watching episodes 16 - 19, but I don't own them. I mean...I own the DVDs but I don't own the-...I'll shut up.

* * *

Roy's lungs were exploding. Or perhaps they were doing a funny little dance around his other internal organs that made it _feel_ like they were exploding, but the whole situation was still just as unpleasant. His gloved hands were pressed to the wall as he coughed and choked, and as his dark eyes scrutinized the small panel of the obviously vacant Interrogation Room door, he lost his breath all over again.

It was quite funny, actually. Well, to anybody who wasn't Roy. He'd joined the State Military as soon as they'd take him, and since then he'd forced himself to be cold and stoic at all times; priding himself on his ability to detach himself from anything that could plague him during the dark hours. And now, this...this _brat_ had him on his knees with a coded report and a few tears. It was ludicrous.

He cursed. Or at least, he tried. What actually came out was, "Shi...hiiiii...." and another hoarse cough that had his whole body shaking. He abandoned that plan of attack pretty quickly, and instead he told himself firmly that he had to concentrate. Hakuro had obviously taken Edward somewhere he didn't want to be found, which left all manner of possibilities as to what he was going to do to him. Roy shivered. If he didn't force something useful out of his brain, and soon, Hakuro was going to _destroy_ him.

Groaning in desperation, he curled his hand into a fist and snapped his fingers, creating a small flame at the tip of his middle finger that was barely larger than the miniature inferno Havoc used to light his cigarettes. It illuminated the stark-white wall he was leaning against, giving it even more of a sickly hue than usual, and throwing the shadow of the figure standing behind him into sharp relief.

He tensed. "Can I help you?"

His tone positively dripped impatience, making it painfully obvious to whoever had dared interrupt his misery that they were not welcome. He didn't turn around; didn't offer them the respect of eye contact, but he could almost feel a pair of eyes burning into the back of his head, coupled with a smirk that made him shiver.

"Looking for Ed?"

He recognized that voice. He'd recognize it anywhere, but couldn't explain why he suddenly hated it. Turning his head, he peered over the shoulder of his crisp, perfectly regulation military jacket and scowled. His guard was firmly in place. He had been completely ignorant of those scrawled reports branded with Archer's name, and he certainly didn't think it an accident that nobody had bothered to inform him. How many times had Edward been given that smirk Frank was directing at him, now?

He narrowed his eyes. "What did you do to him?"

Frank laughed: a laugh that Roy had heard a thousand times before, but suddenly it sounded so much more sinister. "What're you gonna do, Roy? Charge in there and rescue your little damsel in distress?"

Roy felt a growl rising in his throat, and bit it back. He didn't have time for this. Whipping around, he stepped away from the wall and had barely made a single move towards the end of the hallway when Frank stepped in front of him: eyebrows raised, smirk firmly in place, and effectively barricading his route.

"Alright," he gave a pseudo-nonchalant shrug. "Tell them. Tell them you fucked him. Tell them you tried to kill him, tell them you let him _lie_for you," he bared his teeth in a leer that made Roy wince at the truth of it. "I'm sure that'll go down _real_ well with the Fuhrer."

He clenched his fists. "Why the Hell are you doing this, Archer? You're no better than me! I know what you did, you sick son-of-a-bitch! It was you that was hurting him, wasn't it?!"

Again, Frank ignored him. "Or, you could walk away. Keep your mouth shut. And one day you'll be giving the orders, and those Ishbalan kids will stop screaming every time you close your eyes," Roy flinched, and regretted it in less than a second as Frank smirked again. "You're not gonna throw your dream away for that kid, are you?"

Roy dropped his gaze to the floor and was silent for a long moment. He hated to think it; he _loathed_ and _detested_ and _despised_ to think it, but Frank was right. For almost a decade he'd thought of nothing but becoming the Fuhrer: of ensuring that another massacre never happened. Edward had even given his _own_ rank to help him achieve that, and on the same day, spared his life and told him to earn it.

How was he supposed to earn his own life? Turn his back and live out his dream of controlling the State as Fuhrer Mustang? Or by saving Edward as he had saved him: by Equivalent Exchange?

He narrowed his eyes; grit his teeth and felt a determination engulfing him unlike any he'd ever felt before. It was strong, empowering and it almost frightened him, but he succumbed to it. He'd made his choice, and God, was he gonna need it.

"Edward deserves better."

Frank sighed, shaking his head despairingly. "I hoped you wouldn't say that, Roy. I really did," he smiled, trying and failing to withhold his amusement. "'Cause now I'm gonna have to do something you'll regret."

Roy cocked a brow. What was that, a slip of the tongue? He even opened his mouth to question him, but he didn't manage a single word. They died in his throat as Frank withdrew a revolver from his back pocket and held it perfectly level with his chest, not a single trace of hesitation in his expression.

Roy's eyes widened. Without even thinking he raised his right hand, fingers poised, but he was a second too late. Frank pulled the trigger. He hadn't expected the recoil, hadn't thought about it when he liberated this particular piece from the armory, but it jolted his wrist, and instead of puncturing his chest, the bullet took a slightly different path: straight through Roy's left eye.

He took it in silence, which surprised them both. The only sounds were his boots scraping the tile as he stumbled backwards, and the dull _thunk_ of a body hitting the floor that Roy had heard so many times before. This one sounded strange though, maybe because it was his, he wasn't sure. It was dulled, like he was listening underwater, or from a hallway on the other side of Central Command, or-

God, he was dense. It sounded like he was dying.

He wanted to laugh at his own idiocy, but his body wasn't really up to it. He had collapsed on his hands and knees, allowing him to watch through a blurred and blood-stained eye as the tile turned crimson, and his body decided to inform of its weakness by letting his arms give way, and he fell flat on his face.

He didn't move again.

The silence as Frank pocketed his revolver was deafening, though he showed no sign that it had affected him at all. When he looked at Roy, there was nothing but disgust, like he had asked for it. Like he _deserved_ it.

He gave a grim smile. "Not much of a way to go, is it?" he raised his shoulders in a vague shrug. "I'm sorry, Roy. But you were a problem. You had to go away."

He tried an expression that looked like sympathy, but it didn't feel right. It faltered within seconds. Shrugging it off, he turned on his heel and swept from the hallway, his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked somber, even hurt, but it was not out of regret.

He was trying not to laugh.

----

Edward's eyes were closed, and he was certain they were bruised. He tasted blood in his mouth: the coppery scent making him retch, and tilting his head slightly to the side, he spat it to the floor. He got another one for that: a fist colliding with his jaw and snapping his head to the other side, and he blinked the stars from his eyes. He didn't even know what he was supposed to have done, any more.

Coming to think of it, the Fuhrer hadn't asked him any questions at all. Hadn't given him a chance to prove his innocence, or even confirm his guilt. He felt sick. Maybe this wasn't an interrogation at all. Maybe this was his execution.

The Fuhrer straightened up, inspecting his blood-stained knuckles for a moment, before averting his gaze to the young blond he had shackled to a small, wooden chair. His head was bowed: golden hair escaping its usual braid and cascading over his face, but Fuhrer Bradley wasn't satisfied. It was barely there, and the kid probably wasn't even aware of it, but Edward was smiling.

Scowling, he turned towards the soldier standing guard by the door, and gestured with a small flick of his hand that the two of them should leave. The soldier raised a hand in a brisk salute with the faintest hint of a smirk, and opened the door, leaving Edward alone and still bound to his chair. He didn't even bother to look up.

The door slammed to a close, and in the space of less than a second the soldier had shifted, revealing an androgynous figure with long, lime green hair, and a permanent look of contempt. He rested his hands on his hips and sighed heavily in mock-desperation, eyes fixed on the Fuhrer.

"What are we supposed to do with the pipsqueak now?" he demanded in a slow drawl. "Archer obviously did a half-assed job."

"Now Envy, he did as he was told," the Fuhrer chided with a small smirk. "It's no fault of his that Fullmetal knows how to put up a fight."

Envy's displeasure intensified. "We can't just let him go, Pride. As soon as he works out what the Stone's made of, he'll try to stop us. And we can't have that."

The Fuhrer was still smiling, even as Envy clenched his fists and looked about to strike him. "I have no intention of letting him go," he said simply. "Our Master will know what to do with him."

The next time the door of the squalid little dungeon was opened, it was by a woman: dark hair cut short, to the length of her chin, and wearing a long dress covering every possible inch of her body. Edward grimaced. She was wearing perfume. The pungent aroma made him feel nauseous, but it was better that the blood he could still taste.

He knew she was smiling without even looking. "Son of Hohenheim, I'm sorry it had to end this way. You could have been quite useful to us."

Edward blinked in an attempt to clear the fog from his mind. He knew that voice, he was certain he did. Drawing his strength, he raised his head and found himself looking into a pair of very familiar eyes, though now they were narrowed in malice. She almost looked...amused.

His eyes grew wide. "L-Lyra?"

Ignoring him completely, she held out the small, sleeping child in her arms, that Edward only then noticed she was carrying. He had grown weak with the constant torture, though he still felt the alchemic energy rushing towards them, the way the air pulsed and moved in a manner he'd always found intoxicating. He blinked.

The chains were gone. Everything, in fact, was gone, save for the enormous set of ornate doors he'd hoped never to see again. The Gate. What the Hell was he doing here again? Still, he counted his blessings, massaging his flesh wrist with a grimace. He wasn't sure how much longer he could have withstood those chains.

"Br-Brother?"

He whipped around so quickly his vertebrae cracked, and his jaw fell slack as he caught sight of the small body curled several feet from him. Alphonse had been crying: tracks of recent tears still staining his cheeks, and the sight was heartbreaking on the ten year old face Edward recalled so clearly from his childhood.

"Al!"

He tried to reach for him, but he had barely moved when the boy disappeared, morphing into an older, taller form: a woman with a smile Edward would never forget. Except, Trisha Elric wasn't smiling now. She was drenched with blood: limbs broken, incomplete, amber eyes gazing but never seeing.

Edward screamed, and she changed again.

Roy Mustang was lying in front of him: flesh tinged blue as his body heat escaped him, one eye indecipherable beneath blood and torn flesh. He didn't move, and Edward was certain he had been killed. At least, until he sat up with a grotesque cracking of bone, looked right at him with that one, onyx eye, and smirked: the furthest thing from a smile that the blond had ever seen.

"Gee, Ed," he mocked. "You screwed something else up. First, you got your brother stuck in a suit of armor-"

"Shut up!" Edward snarled, flesh and prosthetic hands shaking uncontrollably.

"And I just died trying to save your ass," he sneered. "I don't know why I even bothered. You're a curse. You'll never amount to anything but a killer."

"I said shut up!!"

And then, he was alone. Completely and utterly alone, without even the thousands of prying hands that lay beyond the Gate for company. He curled his knees to his chest, resting his chin upon them and fighting for each breath that passed his lips. He wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. All he had for comfort was his mind taunting him, reminding him of what he had done, how he had failed.

He had no idea how long he was sitting there until Alphonse returned to him, until his mother pleaded for him to fix her, and Roy sneered and mocked him like he always did. It happened again, and again, and again. Had to happen. Because Edward was a sinner, a sinner who'd ruined lives and broken laws, and worst of all, allowed himself to be broken over and over until he couldn't even feel it any more, without so much as a word in protest.

And the Gate ensured that sinners could never escape their punishment.


End file.
